


The Question of Normal

by blue_newman



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, M/M, Slow Burn, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 64,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_newman/pseuds/blue_newman
Summary: Ian Gallagher is a prison counsellor. His life is finally steady and stable and that's just fine. Until one Mickey Milkovich is assigned to him and he has to try to find a way to help an inmate who may be more than just the Southside thug he first appears to be and who may be the person to throw his steady life into glorious chaos.





	1. Prologue - Running to Fall

Ian was falling. He was lying on the wet, cold sidewalk but he was falling into blackness and it was blissful nothing. For weeks the pops of colour, the bursts of stars, the ever running vibrancy of the world had kept him up and moving, running faster, laughing louder, fucking harder, until the trip that led to the fall that led to the floor. The floor that was cradling his body. The only real thing he could feel was the slick wet of the concrete against his cheek. It was solid. It was good. He closed his eyes and waited for all of it to just stop.

Mickey was running. Mickey was always running, always sprinting fast enough to stay just out of reach. His breath was a sharp catch in his chest. He was too high for this, too much shit in his system to be able to think that one step ahead that meant escape rather than capture. He could hear feet behind him but he resisted looking round, eyes darting about for something that would mean another miraculous getaway by Mickey Milkovich. There was an alley half a block away. He pushed his body harder, giving his everything to one last burst of speed, and suddenly Mickey wasn’t running anymore. Mickey was falling. 

The foot hitting his side was enough to get Ian to open his eyes. Through the numb nothingness inside his head he realised that someone was sprawled on the ground next to him. He closed his eyes again but he was being jostled by too many feet, too many voices over his head, everyone shouting. Someone kicked him in the thigh and he opened his eyes again. 

Blue, he thought. Blue eyes. Blue flashing lights. Blue uniforms. 

Red, Mickey thought. Red hair. Red blood coming out of his nose from the fall. Red hot anger as the handcuffs were closed around his wrists. Fucking red everywhere as he kicked out, bucked his body to make it as difficult as possible to hold him. He was picked up and slammed back into the ground. All the air left his body and they lifted him up. His eyes caught on the guy he’d fallen over and held for a moment. 

Blue, thought Ian. And then he closed his eyes and he didn’t think anything anymore.


	2. Five Years Later

Ian put his messenger bag into the plastic tray and emptied his pockets of loose change and keys. 

‘Morning, Tom,’ he said, stifling a yawn as he stepped through the metal detector and held his arms out. 

‘Morning,’ Tom said, running the metal detecting wand along Ian’s torso, arms and legs. ‘Late night?’

‘End of semester papers. Final year’s a bitch.’ 

‘Wouldn’t know, man. Don’t need a college degree to wield one of these,’ Tom said, grinning as he finished sweeping the detector along Ian’s back. He tapped him on the shoulder with it. ‘You’re good to go.’

‘How long are we going to have the extra checks, do you think?’ Ian asked as he waited for his tray to make its way through the scanner. Normally the walk-through detector was enough but two weeks before they’d added the handheld. 

‘Its only getting worse,’ Karla said, glancing up from her side of the security desk and walking over to the end of the conveyor belt. She reached for Ian’s bag as he did and he raised his eyebrows as she flipped it open and reached inside. She withdrew his travel mug and wagged her finger at him. 

‘Someone’s not reading his emails,’ she said and Tom laughed behind him. 

‘What? Are you serious? How can my coffee be a threat?’ Ian watched as Karla turned and put his mug on the shelf behind her. There were already three other mugs and a flask lined up there.

Tom leant on the desk next to him, taking advantage of Ian’s open bag to lazily flick through the rest of its contents. 

‘You say coffee but how do we know that’s what it is?’ Karla said in a serious voice that was let down by the slight quirk at the corner of her lips. ‘Could be radioactive, couldn’t it, Tom?’

‘Absolutely,’ Tom said, nodding. ‘Could have anything in there. Can’t take chances. Take our jobs far too seriously.’

‘You both suck,’ Ian reached over to flip his bag closed. ‘The only thing in there is the coffee I lovingly made this morning so I don’t have to drink the water than passes for coffee in the break room.’ 

‘Got to keep the good inmates of Cook County safe,’ Tom said as Ian scooped up his change and keys and forced them back into his pockets. 

‘Especially from Brazilian roasts.’ Karla grinned widely as she flopped back into her swivel chair behind the monitor. 

‘Columbian, actually.’

Ian dragged his bag onto his shoulder as they both made high pitched impressed noises behind him.

‘Ooooooh, Columbian. We got the good stuff,’ Tom said. 

Ian flashed them his middle finger and made his way down the corridor towards the locked gate at the end. He could hear them laughing being him and he rolled his eyes at the guard who started forward to unlock it for him. He grinned at Ian. 

‘Didn’t read the coffee email?’ he asked as he swung the gate open and let Ian through. 

‘Didn’t read the coffee email,’ Ian said nodding at him as he headed down another long corridor. It was painted the same sickly, industrial green as every other wall in the jail. He waited at another locked gate, showing his staff pass to be let through. 

He was mulishly annoyed about his mug of coffee being confiscated. He’d got up too late to grab any coffee before he left that morning, falling asleep the night before on the couch surrounded by half read case notes and textbooks filled with scribbled references in the margins. He was normally so careful to stick to his routine but between the end of the semester and one of the other prison counsellors being signed off with stress he was on the edge of being overwhelmed. He was wearing his last clean, ironed shirt and his pants were just the wrong side of too crumpled but they’d been the best of a bad bunch. He ran his hand through his hair as he waited for another gate to be unlocked and locked behind him. He had two new inmates to meet today and he needed to get his head back in the game. 

He reached his office and grinned at the woman leaning against the door jamb. She scowled back at him. 

‘Coffee?’ he asked, unlocking his office and dumping his bag onto one of the worn chairs. 

‘Fucking coffee,’ Ana said lifting his bag up and dumping it on the floor before throwing herself into the chair. ‘What the hell am I meant to do with coffee that means they’ve decided to ban it?’

Ian clicked on his computer and dropped into his chair, swivelling to face her. 

‘I mean, if you’d read the email.’ He schooled his face into a carefully innocent expression and shrugging his shoulders slightly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. 

‘Absolutely not,’ she said shaking her head and glaring at him. ‘Absolutely no way did you not get your coffee taken off you. No way you read the fucking email they sent at practically midnight. I’m calling bullshit, Gallagher.’ 

He laughed and swung round to type his password in. 

‘One mug of freshly brewed Columbian roast,’ he said and she groaned behind him, flopping her head against the wooden back of the seat.

‘How many new ones you got today?’ she asked.

‘Two. You?’ 

‘Just the one. Makes up for the three yesterday. I know we’re therapists or whatever and I know Paul had a breakdown but fucking hell I could kill him. Think they’ll send us someone new?’

Ian threw her a look over his shoulder and she rolled her eyes. There was barely the budget for them and they were stretched as thin as they would go. He ran his eyes over his emails and she lightly kicked the back of his chair.

‘So…’ she said nudging his chair as he skimmed an email about car parking allocations. 

‘So what?’ he said not turning around. She kicked a little harder. 

‘Ian,’ she said. ‘You know what.’ 

He ran his hand through his hair and spun to face her. He shrugged and she kicked his leg instead. 

‘Tell me you didn’t cancel?’ she asked. He glanced away and she kicked him again, harder. 

‘Ey,’ he said reaching down to grab her ankle. ‘No more kicking. I had to. I couldn’t spare the time.’

She wriggled her leg out of his grip and stared at him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. 

‘You couldn’t spare the time to go on a date with the ridiculously handsome and built guy I set you up with because I know he’s an absolute sure thing and I know you haven’t gotten any in so long that it’s becoming worrying?’ 

‘Exactly that,’ he said and she kicked him again. He scooted his chair back and held his hands up in front of him. ‘Look, it’s not like I’m not grateful but I’m just not looking for that right now. Between this and school and family I’m just about hanging in there. I don’t need to add anything else to that.’

Her expression soften and she lent forward. She touched him gently on the knee. 

‘You okay?’ she asked. ‘You need to talk? Regroup?’

He smiled at her and touched the back of her hand. She rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb knowing it was one of the best ways to ground him when he started to spiral. 

‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘It’s just normal life stress, I think, rather than the extra special kind. But I’m aware, okay? I’m tracking it.’

She smiled at him as her thumb slid over his hand. She squeezed slightly and let go. 

‘Okay. I know you’ve got this but I’m here for you if you need it. As a friend and as a fellow therapist,’ she said and he laughed. 

‘Not quite a therapist yet,’ he reminded her. ‘Bit more school before they let me do that with letters after my name.’

She clicked her tongue and prodded him gently with her finger. 

‘That’s just a bit of paper. You’re a therapist in all but that and a good one.’

He grinned and let her make him feel better. Ana was good at that. They’d been working together for the year he’d been at the jail and she’d sought him out in his first week and all but demanded they be friends. He’d been so lost that he’d latched onto her steady confidence and coasted in her slipstream. When they’d started to hang out outside of work he’d agonised for almost a week about how to tell her that he was gay and how, even though he was absolutely there for the easy physical contact between them, it was as friends. He’d blurted it out one night when she casually dropped onto her couch next to him and draped her legs over his. She’d look at him like he had two heads and he'd almost bolted right then but then she’d rolled her eyes and thrown a handful of popcorn at him. 

‘I already know that, you idiot. You’re the prettiest, gayest thing I’ve ever seen.’

He’d stared at her, mouth slightly open and she’d scowled at him. 

‘Am I allowed to say that? That I knew you were gay just because of your general you-ness? ‘Cause I’ve said it now and it’s just out there. Maybe I just have great gaydar.’

When he still hadn’t said anything she’d got her therapist face on and asked him, very seriously, if he was okay with being gay. Was he out? Did he need support? What could she do? And then he’d laughed and flung his arms round her and she’d told him off for spilling the popcorn and they’d watched a slasher movie that left them so on edge that they’d both yelled when her cat leapt onto the arm of the couch. 

‘Have you told Fiona?’ Ana asked and he scrubbed his hand over his face. 

‘No. There’s nothing to tell yet so I’m just…I’m maintaining, okay?’ 

He didn’t want to tell Fiona. He didn’t want to see her carefully hide the worry and panic behind gentle concern and barely held together stress. He’d been level for his longest stretch and he wasn’t willing to let that go because school was hard and work was busy. He was walking the bi-polar tightrope but he didn’t think he was falling off just yet.

‘I’ll tell her if I need to,’ he said and Ana nodded. 

‘So I’ll have to find someone else for Buff Jackson,’ she said, leaning back. 

‘I’m pretty sure someone called Buff Jackson won’t have too much trouble.’ He reached over to grab his bag. ‘I need to read up on my two new guys.’

She rolled her eyes and stood up as he pulled two folders out of his bag. 

‘Fine, I can take a hint. I suppose it’s time to start the day,’ she said, stretching her arms above her head. ‘I’m so happy it’s Friday.’

‘You and me both,’ he said, flipping the first folder open. 

‘Who you got?’ she asked, glancing over his shoulder. 

‘Erm,’ he looked at the top of the first file. ‘Samuel Perez.’

He flipped over the second folder.

‘And Mikhailo Milkovich.’ 

She went still next to him and he glanced at her. 

‘You okay?’ 

She nodded again but her eyes darted down to the file in his hands. He knew that look. 

‘Problem inmate?’ he asked. They generally didn’t share thoughts before the first meeting. Ian liked to meet each inmate sent to him without being too influenced but sometimes it was necessary to give a heads up, especially if an inmate was violent or unpredictable. 

Ana nodded again but she didn’t say anything. 

‘Not going to give me a clue?’ Ian asked. He flipped through the folder. It was surprisingly thin. Usually Paul kept copious notes on his patients but there was almost nothing in Milkovich’s file. In comparison Perez’s folder was bursting with carefully kept notes and thoughts. 

Ana worried her lip and then let out a sigh. 

‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘I think he’s the reason Paul’s out with stress.’

Ian’s eyebrows raised. Paul was an old timer. Ian figured it had all got too much for him after a lifetime of trying to counsel men when they were at their lowest. Trap this many people in one place and it becomes a mixing pot of every kind of issues imaginable. 

‘Really?’ he asked. 

‘I don’t know exactly but I’m pretty sure he was the last straw for Paul. I don’t know. He didn’t exactly like to talk about him.’

Ian flicked through the sparse pages again. 

‘Doesn’t look like they did a lot of talking.’

Ana looked worried and Ian flashed her a reassuring smile. 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t even met the guy yet. Give me some time to figure it out. Maybe he just didn’t want the therapy. He wouldn’t be the first guy not to want to talk to us. I got this.’

Ana nodded, glanced down at the folder again and then squeezed his shoulder before walking to the door. She stopped with her hand on the handle and turned back to him. 

‘Ian?’ 

He glanced round at her, eyebrows raised. 

‘Be careful with Milkovich, okay?’ 

He smiled at her but she didn’t smile back. 

‘Ana, don’t worry. How bad can he be?’


	3. Mouth Firmly Closed

‘Milkovich!’ 

Mickey was folding clothes in the laundry and glanced round at the C.O. who had called his name. He sighed and folded the shirt in his hands before turning round. Brooks was marching towards him and Mickey planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. He raised an eyebrow and waited. 

‘What are you doing?’ Brooks barked, chest pushed out and hand on the top of his taser in his belt. He had a few inches on Mickey and he was stretched to his fullest height to use them. Mickey pushed his tongue into the corner of his mouth and glanced round. 

‘I’m fuckin’ working,’ he said, extending his hand to take in the laundry. ‘Fuck else would I be doin’?’ 

‘It’s Friday,’ Brooks said and it took all Mickey had to bite back a retort. He raised both eyebrows and shrugged. 

‘So?’

‘Friday you go talk to the counsellor,’ Brooks said, reaching to grip Mickey’s forearm and start leading him away. Mickey shrugged him off. 

‘What the fuck? I thought the counsellor was fuckin’ sick. Last week I didn’t have to go. Said he was stressed or whatever. He suddenly all better? ‘Cause I don’t wanna talk to some fuckin’ head case who can’t even sort his own shit out.’

Brooks gripped his arm and held tightly, not letting Mickey shrug him off this time. Mickey still didn’t move. 

‘You’ve got a new counsellor so you’re back to going,’ Brooks said. ‘Now you coming or do I need to get someone else to help me get you there?’

‘Fuckin’ ridiculous,’ Mickey grumbled as he let himself be led along like a dog on a leash. ‘I don’t need to talk to no counsellor.’ 

‘Might not be too bad, Mick,’ Reed shouted out from by the industrial washers. He was a scrawny guy who was always swamped by his prison outfit. ‘You might get the chick. She’s fuckin’ hot, man. I’d spend an hour with her.’ 

Reed grinned, showing his discoloured meth teeth, and Mickey rolled his eyes. Next to him Brooks laughed. 

‘In your dreams, Reed,’ Brooks called back. 

Yeah and in yours as well, Mickey thought as he watched Brooks wet his lips and smirk. He let himself be pushed and pulled through the jail, raising his eyebrows and nodding at a few people as he went. Enough people said ‘Hey, Mick’ to remind Brooks that he might be dragging him round by his arm but Mickey wasn’t no one in this place. Brooks would tighten his grip every now and again and Mickey clenched his fists to keep calm. Fuckin’ C.O.s.

‘So,’ Mickey said as they waited by one of the locked gates, ‘which counsellor I gotta see?’

Brooks smirked, glancing at Mickey and shaking his head. 

‘You think you got a shot with her? Reed too lowly but the great Mickey Milkovich'll turn the pretty counsellor’s head?’

Mickey stared back at him impassively. 

‘No chance. Not unless she likes them pint sized.’ Brooks laughed and Mickey imagined, just for a moment, flinging his head forward and crunching Brooks’ nose under his forehead. Benefits would be no counselling and it’d feel fuckin’ amazing. Not so great would be spending the weeks in solitary and the added time on his sentence. He dug his nails into his palms. 

‘What the fuck ever, man,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t know what hit her if I wanted to get on that.’ 

Brooks laughed again as the gate was unlocked and he lead Mickey through it. 

‘Ladies man on the outside, Milkovich?’ he said, squeezing the top of Mickey’s arm hard. 

‘Fuckin’ right,’ Mickey said, ignoring the pain. He’d have bruises the next day. 

‘I’m sure. Whores and meth heads don’t count,’ Brooks said. ‘Going to be a long time before you get back to that. How long you got left?’

Mickey said nothing. Brooks didn’t need him to. He knew Mickey had at least a year left. Mickey let the words wash over him as Brooks kept up an endless stream about Mickey’s chance with women and his general worthless life but it was nothing new. It was tired, played out stuff and Mickey let his mind wander as they made their way to the section of the prison where the offices were. 

Mickey had held out against the last counsellor, given him absolutely nothing. Some sad fuck, who’d worked in a prison for longer than most of them had been locked up, was not getting anything out of Mickey. So he’d sat, silent and expressionless, week after week until the guy gave up and stated to fill the empty space himself. Talking about his fuckin’ life and his dreams and what he’d wanted to be and how it had turned out. Mickey thought at first that he’d shared to make Mickey feel like he could share as well but he quickly realised that the guy had literally no one else to talk to outside of that room. It was like turning on a tap that wouldn’t shut off and all Mickey had to do was sit and say nothing, keep his face neutral and listen. 

When they’d told him the guy was out sick Mickey wondered if he’d killed himself. He seemed like the type. He’d been surprised that he’d been concerned. The guy had just been so sad and so fuckin’ lonely that Mickey had struggled not to worry but he pushed it away. The guy being off with stress meant no more counselling and that was absolutely fine by Mickey. Except now he had to start all over again.

Brooks pushed him down onto the bench in the counselling corridor and pulled the handcuffs off his belt, gesturing for Mickey to hold his hand out. 

‘Fuckin’ really?’ Mickey asked eyebrows raised high. ‘Where the fuck am I gunna go, man? There’s gates at either fuckin’ end.’ 

Brooks just waited and Mickey sighed, holding out one hand to be cuffed to the metal bar behind the bench. Brooks made the cuff too tight but Mickey didn’t say anything. He just watched as Brooks made his way down to one of the doors and knocked. A muffled voice came from inside and Brooks cracked the door. 

‘Got Milkovich,’ he said and Mickey heard someone reply. 

‘Great. Give me two minutes.’

Not the woman then. Definitely a man’s voice. Mickey dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. The woman might have been easier. He could have talked about his mother, maybe his sister, given her the sad eyes and said how he just wanted to be a better man on the outside. Fuckin’ get her to eat up that shit and sign whatever needed signing so he could stop this bullshit. 

‘Okay,’ said the voice and Brooks came back to Mickey. He un-cuffed him from the bar but left the cuff around his wrist. Grip tight on his upper arm he pulled Mickey towards the door. 

‘You want him cuffed?’ Brooks asked and Mickey threw one hand in the air. 

‘Fuck do I need to be cuffed for? Fuck am I going to do? Give him a fuckin’ paper cut? I never had cuffs with other guy. You gunna cuff me to the chair? Fuckin’ ridiculous. What if there’s a fire? Fuckin’ burn to death ’til you can un-cuff me?’

Brooks squeezed his arm hard. It hurt and Mickey stopped, glaring at the side of Brooks' head. Prick had missed a patch of hair when he’d shaved. 

‘I think we can leave the cuffs off,’ someone said and Mickey glanced over at the counsellor.

Red, he thought. They locked eyes and Mickey thought green and then the red head fuckin’ raised his eyebrows at Mickey and tilted his head slightly to the side. 

‘Do you think we can do without the cuffs, Mr Milkovich?’ he asked and Mickey stared at him. He just waited but Mickey wasn’t giving him anything. 

‘He can be unpredictable,’ Brooks said and Mickey knew he was enjoying this because Mickey wasn’t unpredictable. Mickey was steady and certain and violent when he needed to be. He wasn’t some tweaked out little bitch who couldn’t control himself. Mickey was all about control. 

‘No cuffs,’ said the counsellor. ‘We can start off trusting each other.’

Mickey almost snorted but stopped himself just in time. He raised his eyebrows at Brooks and then raised his wrist where the cuff was still tightly closed. Brooks huffed but unlocked it. There was an angry red weal around the skin and Mickey ached to rub it but refused to give Brooks the satisfaction. He took a couple of steps into the room and waited. 

‘I’ll be back in fifty minutes. There’s guards just outside,’ Brooks said and the counsellor just smiled. 

‘There always are,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

As good as dismissed Brooks closed the door and Mickey waited. The guy had glanced down and was flicking through what Mickey could only assume was his own file. He was surprised there was anything in it. He watched him. He was young. Probably around Mickey’s age. Mickey watched him run a hand over the back of his neck. Long fingers. 

He suddenly looked up and Mickey caught himself just before he flinched. 

‘Oh,’ he said, smiling. ‘You can sit down.’ 

He gestured to the chairs and glanced back down at the papers. Mickey waited a beat and then dropped down into the chair furthest from him. The guy shot him a quick smile and then spun on his chair to pull something up on his computer. Mickey waited. 

‘Sorry,’ the guy said. ‘It’s all a bit hectic with us taking over from Paul. Just making sure I’m totally up to speed.’ 

Mickey didn’t say anything. Just watched him as he scanned something on the screen before turning his chair back to face Mickey. 

‘So, introductions. I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher. I’m the counsellor you’ll be seeing while Paul’s not available. You can call me Ian. Do you prefer if I call you Mikhalio or would you rather Mr Milkovich?’

He waited but Mickey didn’t say anything. Finally he shrugged an almost nonexistent shrug and Gallagher’s eyebrows creased slightly in the middle. 

‘Well if we’re going with Ian why don’t we stay with first names?’ he said and Mickey waited again before giving the smallest of shrugs. The eyebrow crease again.

‘Great,’ Gallagher said eventually, smiling in a way that looked unsure and a little hesitant. ‘So, I’ve read your notes from Paul but if it’s alright with you I’d like to start fresh and get to know you myself rather than through someone else. I thought we could just chat today, get to know each other, that kind of thing.’ 

He looked at Mickey expectantly and Mickey made sure to leave a long enough pause for it to become uncomfortable before he gave another tiny shrug. Gallagher glanced down at the papers in his lap again and then quickly back up at Mickey. Mickey just gazed back, keeping his face as still as possible. He could hear the tick of the clock on the wall behind him. Gallagher shuffled slightly, opened his mouth a little and then closed it again, the crease in his eyebrows more pronounced. He looked at the folder in his lap and swallowed. Mickey watched his Adam’s apple move and almost smirked. Fuckin’ lack of chill on this boy. Face just giving everything away.

Mickey just waited. He could do this all fuckin’ day.


	4. The Hour of Silence

Samuel Perez liked to talk. 

Ian sat quietly in the chair across from him and listened as wave after wave of stories crashed over him. Perez ended up at his mother, which is usually the kind of thing people think therapists wanted to hear about. Perez really liked his mother and he was sorry about all the trouble he’d caused her and he knew she loved him because she told him and she sent him letters and told him to be a good man who prayed and ate well and Perez thought he could do that but then he got out and it turned out he couldn’t quite mange it and then he was back in and the disappointment and letter writing cycle started again but Ian should understand that none of Sam’s problems came from his mother, she was practically a saint. 

Ian waited for Perez to take a breath before he smiled and nodded.

‘That’s all really good, Sam. I’m really pleased you’re able to be so open with me. I’m looking forward to helping you work towards making the life you want when you get out of here. I think you’re in a good place for our work to help.’

Sam beamed at him, looking younger than his forty years and so eager to please that it made something in Ian ache. He’d read Paul’s notes, seen the long lists of offences Sam had committed and knew he was trapped in a cycle that he couldn’t break on his own. Ian really wanted to use the hour a week they had together to help the man. He made a couple of notes as Sam’s leg jerked up and down in the same jittery way it had all session. 

There was a knock at the door and one of the prison officers came into the room. Ian stood up and held his hand out. Sam shook it, face open and hopeful. 

‘Great session, Sam. I look forward to seeing you next week,’ Ian said and he waited for his door to close before he slumped back in his chair. His head felt busy, crowded with all the details Sam had laid before him in the hopes that Ian could start piecing some of them together. He leaned forward and rubbed his temples, trying to loosen some of the tension. He rolled his shoulders and stretched back. There was a knock at the door. 

‘Come in.’

The door opened and a guard looked in. 

‘Got Milkovich,’ he said and Ian asked for two minutes, swinging round to swap Sam’s files for Mikhailo Milkovich’s much thinner folder. He took a second to check no urgent emails had come in and then told the guard he was ready. 

He was skimming an email about an upcoming meeting, his back to the door, when the guard asked about cuffs and there was a verbal explosion from behind him. He spun his chair quickly towards the voice. 

Mikhailo Milkovich was all expression. Ian stared at him as he ranted about being cuffed. Watched his free hand move through the air to illustrate every point. Watched his eyebrows punctuate every word, expressing every second of injustice he obviously thought the cuffs represented. He watched his mouth smoothly form his thoughts, not a trip or a stumble or a moment for pause, just a flow of passion and opinion. It was kind of beautiful. 

Ian swallowed and then nearly laughed. The guard was looking as if this was nothing new and his hand was firmly around the top of Milkovich’s bicep. Very firmly round it. Ian frowned. Firmly enough that it looked liked it might hurt. 

‘I think we can leave the cuffs off,’ Ian said, suddenly wanting to pry the guard’s fingers loose of their hold. Two heads shot round to look at him and Milkovich’s entire face closed off. It was like switching off the only light in a dark room. Ian felt his eyebrows raise and his head tilt. That was a neat trick, knowing how to shut off that much movement and expression in a blink. 

‘Do you think we can do without the cuffs, Mr Milkovich?’ he asked. There was a slight narrowing of the eyes, maybe the start of a glare, but apart from that nothing. 

‘He can be unpredictable,’ the guard said and Ian almost snorted. He’d seen Mikahilo Milkovich for all of two minutes and he could already tell that there was absolutely nothing about the man that was as uncontrolled as unpredictability. He radiated solid certainty, standing there like he expected the world to fold itself around him. Ian watched him closely. 

‘No cuffs. We can start off trusting each other,’ Ian said and there was the slightest flaring of the nostrils that might have been the start of a laugh and then Milkovich’s focus was back on the guard and those eyebrows were back to work, raised up in obvious impatience for the cuffs to be removed. 

Ian watched as he was released and he felt another, sudden stab of anger at the angry red mark the cuffs left behind, starkly visible on pale skin. He barely registered the guard going, obviously reluctant to leave without some kind of dig about the guards being outside. Ian was trying to tamp down the feelings that red mark was causing him. He glanced down at the folder in his lap but he wasn’t reading. He’d seen guards and prisoners interact for a year and he knew some of the things that happened in the prison. Sometimes his patients told him and he always made sure to report it to the right people, though he was never sure anything would be done about it. That red line cutting into the white skin was a problem for Ian. It was done on purpose to hurt, to diminish, to put someone in their place. 

He glanced up and realised he hadn’t even introduced himself. Milkovich was just standing there, face passive, feet spread wide enough to plant himself. Ian had the sense a hurricane could sweep through the building and it wouldn’t matter. This man would emerge still standing exactly where he’d put himself. 

Why would you try to diminish that? Ian thought. 

‘Oh, you can sit down,’ he told him, trying for a friendly professional smile before glancing back at the papers in his lap. He should be saying something now, introducing himself, doing his usual patter about what the therapist relationship was and how the patient could get the most out of it. But his tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. He felt off kilter and unusually nervous. He spun in his chair, apologising before he knew what he was doing, smiling automatically as the other man sat down, reading the same email about the meeting and trying to get his mind back on track. He took a moment before turning round.

‘So, introductions. I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher. I’m the counsellor you’ll be seeing while Paul’s not available. You can call me Ian. Do you prefer if I call you Mikhalio or would you rather Mr Milkovich?’ 

Blue unblinking eyes and the tiniest movement of the shoulder that Ian took as a shrug. He listened to himself talk about using first names and taking the time to get to know each other but it was like speaking to a wall. He kept glancing at the red mark, noting that Milkovich barely seemed conscious of it. His hands were in his lap and Ian could see the ink on his fingers but didn’t let himself look for long enough to read it. He glanced down at the papers in the folder and took a moment. He was being ridiculous. He was a professional who did this all the time. He had this. He straightened his shoulders and made deliberate eye contact and began. 

‘I can see from your notes with Paul that you’ve been attending counselling sessions for around four months. That’s a lot of time to catch up on when you’ve built a relationship with another therapist, I appreciate that. The relationship that develops between therapist and patient can be very particular. It may be that the way I do things is different from Paul. I want you to feel completely open to let me know what you need and what you felt worked, or didn’t work, when you were attending the sessions with Paul.’ 

Ian almost missing the slight movement of tongue in the corner of the other man’s mouth. It drew his eye for the briefest moment before he forced his gaze back up. 

‘Do you know why you were assigned to the counselling program?’ Ian asked. He knew from the notes that it had been a combination of his release date in just under a year and the sudden drop in violent allocations that had given the higher-ups the hope that maybe there was rehabilitation potential. The file Ian had hadn’t had an arrest record, which had been strange. He made a quick note to get a copy before their next meeting while he waited for the other man to decide if he was going to answer. After several long moments it was obvious he wasn’t. 

Ian put the file on the desk behind him and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He met the dispassionate blue eyes that were looking right back at him and wondered just what he’d need to do to ignite the fire that he sensed was locked just behind them. He wanted the passion he’d seen in the doorway. He could work with that. He forced himself to hold eye contact. 

They watched each other. 

Ian listened to the clock tick and just waited. He tried to keep his own face as neutral as possible, tried not to let his eyes flick over the rest of Mikhailo Milkovich’s face. It was a good face, Ian thought. An interesting face. Ian felt his eyes dart from eyes to mouth and across the smooth skin of forehead and cheeks. It was a good face when it was still but he desperately wanted to get it moving again. He thought if he could, it would be the kind of face that you probably wouldn’t get tired of looking at.

He stopped himself abruptly. There was a nervous, thick atmosphere in the room and Ian knew he needed to back up. Maybe he needed to think more seriously about his meds. Maybe he was a little more off course that he thought. He shouldn’t be thinking about a patient’s face like that. He shouldn’t be getting a dry mouth from silent eye contact and he absolutely shouldn’t be fighting the urge to look at the man’s mouth and think about how nicely shaped it was. 

The other man continued to watch him silently. Ian sighed and leaned back again. This game of chicken was getting them nowhere and it was making him feel on edge. If this is what Paul had been dealing with Ian could see why he wouldn’t want to talk about their sessions. 

‘Okay. You obviously don’t want to talk to me. That’s fine. I’m not here to force anyone to do anything they don’t want to do. I don’t know how it worked with Paul but if this is how you want the hour to go I’m okay with that. You can sit, I’ll do some other work and that’ll be our hour.’

He waited but again there was nothing. He shrugged and turned back to grab Perez’s folder. He flipped it open, used his knee as a resting place and began to make notes on their earlier session. He deliberately didn’t glance up at the other man, waiting him out. Apart from the slight up and down of his chest there was barely a movement in the other chair. It was like sharing a room with a very patient, solid animal. 

Slowly Ian got used to it, just the tick of the clock and the quiet breathing of another person. So when there was a knock at the door he actually jumped. He thought he heard a snort from the other man who was already on his feet and waiting for the guard. 

‘Time’s up.’ It was the same guard from before and he placed him hand back where it had been, ready to go. They both turned to the door before Ian was on his feet. They glanced back at him and he extended his hand. 

‘That was an interesting session, Mr Milkovich. I look forward to next week.’ 

There was a brief moment as the blue eyes flicked down to Ian’s hand where he thought he wasn’t going to accept the handshake. Then suddenly he was raising his own arm, the movement displacing the guard’s grip, and there was a warm hand in Ian’s. The grip was firm and dry and solid. Ian glanced up and they looked at each other. Ian thought maybe he was smiling and he shouldn’t be but something about shaking his hand with the guard standing next to them made Ian feel like he was joining some kind of secret team. He thought he could see amusement in the blue eyes and it made he want to smile wider. 

‘Have a good week, Mr Milkovich,’ he said and there was the slightest movement that might have been an eye roll and the hint of pink tongue pushing at the corner of his mouth. 

‘Mickey,’ the other man said suddenly, eyes locked on Ian’s. The hand in his squeezed Ian's for the briefest moment. ‘It’s Mickey.’

And then the hand was out of his and the guard was gripping hard again and moving him away and Ian’s door was closing and he was still standing in his office with his hand slightly outstretched and he wasn’t sure if there was enough air in the room because he didn’t think he’d taken a breath since Mickey had spoken. He could feel the ghost of pressure in his palm from where they’d gripped hands. 

‘Shit,’ Ian breathed to the empty office. ‘Shit.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I just wanted to say thank you for reading and let you know how much I appreciate it. This is the first time I've posted on here and only the second fanfic I've ever written so I was nervous to put it out there. It's crazy to me that people are reading the story I've had in my head. It's also very, very cool.   
> So, the crazy kids have now met properly and you know that means they're about to make everything beautifully messy! It's what they do best :)


	5. An Hour's Long Enough

It was the eye contact that had done it. That and the goddamn height difference. 

He hadn’t meant to shake the outstretched hand but when Gallagher unfolded himself from the chair, all long legs and broad shoulders, Mickey had looked back and realised that Gallagher’s lips were exactly at his eye level. When he started speaking Mickey watched those lips forming words and for just a minute he forgot that Brooks was standing next to him, gripping his arm again. He forgot that he was wearing a faded, muddy brown prison outfit with DOC stamped on the back and Gallagher was wearing a crisp, white shirt and trousers that clung to the top of his thighs in a way that Mickey wished he hadn’t noticed when they’d been sitting in silence. He forgot that this was a mandated hour that they were both being forced into. He forgot that he was so far in the goddamn closet that he made it a point not to look at other men just to prove that he didn’t have to, that he didn’t want to. Instead he just watched the words ‘I look forward to next week’ form and then he was willingly putting his hand forward and gripping the other man’s. 

The skin was soft and his grip was strong and Mickey worked to keep his face as still as possible, because he was aware of enough of the situation not to be smiling like Gallagher had been. He probably assumed this was some kind of therapy breakthrough, that Mickey was quite literally reaching out, rather than the fact that Mickey seemed to be powerless to stop himself. It was the smile that pushed him that little bit further, even as a small voice was telling him shut it down, telling him in no uncertain terms that this wasn’t what he wanted it to be. Ian Gallagher was a therapist trying to find a way in, that was it. But he was smiling like they were in on a secret, with enough of a smirk to be bordering on dangerous, and so Mickey told him his name. And now he was back folding shirts in the laundry feel like the biggest fuckin’ idiot currently locked up in Chicago’s biggest correctional institution. 

He angrily folded sets of clothes together, ignoring the humid heat from the giant dryers and the shouts and laughs of his fellow inmates. He used to hate the laundry but over the years the repetitive nature of the work lulled him into a calm that he’d never found easy to access on the outside. He could work and let him mind drift. He’d only just started to let himself think about what he might do once he was out. It had been too painful at the start, too much time had stretched in front of him that he had limited any thoughts on the future to the next hour and then the next day. Recently, though, he’d let his mind go to days where he’ll be able to do whatever he wanted with his time, days where he could just open his front door and walk outside whenever he felt like it, eat and drink whatever he felt like, live his life without someone tracking his every move. 

He tried to picture it now, hands moving in practiced fashion, working through the pile of clothes in front of him. He tried to picture walking out of his front door and feeling the sun on his bare arms, tried to picture the shitty street he lived on stretching left and right before him and how he’d feel when he could decide to go either way without having to account for it. Or maybe he’d just sit on the steps and smoke, watch the world pass him by while he did nothing at all. 

He tried to keep that image in his head but it kept slipping away and without meaning to he was thinking about green eyes and red hair and a jawline that he absolutely wasn’t thinking about biting because that was the gayest thing he’d ever thought and that included the time in Juvie he realised he wanted to take it hard rather than be the one doing the pounding, something that absolutely wasn’t going to happen while he was locked up. He wasn’t planning on being anyone’s prison bitch, not after all the work he’d done to build his reputation to the point where he was left the hell alone unless he wanted it. 

He’d known he was in trouble the minute the redhead had leaned forward and made deliberate eye contact and then just held it. It had almost been okay, uncomfortable but the kind of challenge Mickey knew he could win. Staring people down was something he was familiar with, even if the people he was usually staring at didn’t generally smell like something faintly minty that made Mickey think about showers and hard, wet skin before he could get a grip on himself. 

So, he could have dealt with the eye contact. He honestly thinks he could have done. But then Gallagher’s eyes had started to move over his face and something in Mickey twanged awake. He could feel his own heart beating in a way that he normally associated with the moments before the first punch was thrown. For nearly three years no one had looked at Mickey like that, like he was worth a second glance, and now this guy who looked like he’d walked out of a fuckin’ magazine was moving his eyes over Mickey’s face and it just wasn’t fair. 

Mickey snorted as he turned to start filling the laundry basket with folded sets of uniforms. The very idea that anything was fair when he spent his days locked up in a prison system designed to break him down was ridiculous, and the idea that it was being looked at by a man so far out of Mickey’s league that was making him feel the injustice of it all was almost enough to make him start questioning his own sanity. Gallagher was a non-starter. Gallagher was every kind of clean to Mickey’s dirty and Mickey needed to stop any avenue of thought that got him to anything but that fact. 

Maybe he just needed blow off some steam. He had been half hard since he’d left the office, uncomfortably aware that he couldn’t shake the lasting impression of Gallagher’s ridiculously pink lips. 

Mickey glanced round the laundry and spotted who he was looking for. He finished piling the clothes in his cart and pushed it across to the table they used for sorting the dirty laundry. 

‘Need some help in the store room,’ he said when he reached the man working through the clothes and then he carried on pushing his cart without looking back. He used the corner of the cart to push open the doors to the supply cupboard. They’d barely swung closed before a thin, dark haired man was pushing through them. Mickey left the cart and made his way behind one of the tall shelves. He heard footsteps behind him.  
Jaxon was a relative newbie, barely been in for six months, and he’d followed Mickey like a lost puppy since the day Mickey had stepped in and stopped him being killed in the showers. Fuckin’ idiot had made the mistake of telling someone he was gay. Mickey would have left it but there was something in the way the kid was curled in on himself while several pairs of feet had kicked him that had made Mickey wade in and get involved. He knew it had caused a minor stir. Mickey didn’t involve himself in anything much these days. He’d fought and fucked for his place, he wasn’t supposed to be risking it for some kid who wasn’t smart enough to keep him mouth shut. But no one was going to accuse Mickey of being smart any time soon. 

‘Knees,’ he said, when they were both hidden behind the unit. 

This was what he needed, he told himself, as Jaxon dropped in front of him. This was the easy, uncomplicated way of straightening his head out, even if he had to ignore the soft look in Jaxon’s eyes as pulled at the cord of Mickey’s prison issue bottoms. Mickey just sighed and fisted his hand in Jaxon’s hair to drag him forward before leaning back, letting Jaxon do what he did pretty well. 

And if he curled his hands into dark hair while he was picturing reds and oranges between his fingers that wasn’t because he was thinking about Ian Gallagher while some other guy was on his knees in front of him. Because it didn’t matter that Gallagher had looked at his mouth throughout their session. It didn’t mean anything that he’d seemed as nervous as Mickey had felt when they’d finally stopped looking at each other and it absolutely didn’t mean anything that Mickey had felt Gallagher’s pulse pounding through his palm as if his heart was racing in time with Mickey’s. None of those things meant a thing. 

At least that’s what he tried to tell himself when he came hot and hard as he let himself imagine, just for a moment, the mark his mouth might leave on the pale flesh where a cut jaw met the soft skin of a long neck. 

‘Shit,’ he breathed, as he let his head loll back against the wall. ‘Shit.’ 

 

************

 

‘So, how were they?’ Ana asked as they both locked their offices and started down the long corridor, finished for the night. 

‘Who?’ Ian was checking his pockets for his keys and making sure his bag was fastened. Ana bumped him as they waited for the gate to be unlocked. 

‘The new guys. Paul’s guys. Milkovich and…’ she trailed off, obviously not remembering the other inmate’s name. 

‘Perez,’ Ian supplied, knowing that she wasn’t interested in him but rather the inmate whose name she could remember. ‘Perez was great, I think I can make a difference there. He seems really keen to engage.’ 

They stopped at another gate and he could feel her staring at the side of his face, waiting. 

‘And?’ she said, finally. Patience was not one of Ana’s better skills, at least not when she’d turned off her therapist brain for the day. ‘What about Milkovich?’ 

Ian shrugged and then reached to pull his bag further up his shoulder as it slipped down. 

‘Less eager to engage,’ he said. 

‘That’s it? Less eager to engage is all you’re giving me?’ 

He glanced at her and let out a small laugh. 

‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ he said. ‘He’s not a talker. Not a lot to tell.’ 

She made a disappointed noise. 

‘What about your lot? How was today?’ he asked before she could ask anything else. 

He listened as she began to fill him in on some of the things that had come up throughout her day, suggesting a couple of ideas for patients she was stuck on, but his head wasn’t really in it. His head hadn’t been in it for most of the afternoon, not since Mickey had left his office. Thankfully he’d only had one more patient, a sweet and seemingly permanently stoned fifty year old who was in the program to try and get him clean enough to ship to a halfway house and smart enough not to be shipped back. Ian didn’t hold out much hope but he liked the guy, normally enjoyed listening to his thoughts on prison and drug reform. 

Not today though. Today Ian had oscillated between panicking that his meds weren’t working as well as they should be and trying to force his thoughts away from blue eyes and pink, pink tongues pushed into the corners of mouths that he shouldn’t be thinking about. 

He’d considered telling Ana but, honestly, he didn’t know what he’d say. How could he explain the fact that his brain seemed to be short circuiting because he’d shook a guy’s hand? He wasn’t thirteen, his hormones were meant to be pretty well in check. He was a grown ass adult who had been completely sexually active for years and he couldn’t stop thinking about a hand shake? He was not going to explain that to his friend, especially as the hand in question belonged to one of his patients who happened to be in prison and was probably extremely straight. He was being ridiculous and that was absolutely why he wasn’t mentioning any of this to Ana. 

That and if he did, they might take Mickey off his rotation. 

That had been the other thing that was making his brain feel like it was trying to eat itself. The idea that there were seven days until he saw Mickey again and the fact that he didn’t want to wait that long. He should not be thinking that way about a guy he’d seen for an hour, a guy who had said barely a handful of words to him. He should not be looking at the week ahead and thinking that seven days seemed too long a stretch before he got to see him again.

Ian waited for the last gate to be opened, listening as Ana started to lay out her weekend plans that mostly consisted of doing as little as possible, and resisted the urge to glance back at the gate that was locked behind them. As they emerged into the bright sun of the car park he tried to tell himself that it was the idea of the pile of school work, mountain of laundry and scattering of family commitments that were causing the heavy weight in his stomach. 

It had to be those things because if it was the idea that he was leaving a man he’d only known for an hour locked away with no way of seeing him for a week then Ian was in a lot more trouble than he thought.


	6. Letting Go a Little

‘So, what’s brought you in to see me?’ 

Ian bounced his knee, despite the fact that he knew it was a nervous habit that his psychologist had already taken note of. Doctor Griffin (‘Just call me Sarah, everyone does’) gave him the reassuring smile she reserved for when she thought he was overthinking telling her something. 

‘There’s obviously something on your mind, Ian. I’m here to listen and try to help.’ 

He’d been seeing Sarah for a couple of years and he liked her. He liked her bright office and her calm demeanour that stayed just the right side of professional. He liked that she was married and that she talked about her kids sometimes. She was like Ian’s blueprint for what he could maybe have after he was finished with school. 

‘I’m not sure my meds are working as well as they were,’ he said, slightly more to his knees than to her. 

‘Okay. What’s making you think that might be case? What kind of things are you noticing?’ 

He took a deep breath and tried to remind himself that he wasn’t being stupid. He was someone dealing with a health issue that required careful monitoring. He was being sensible coming to see Sarah. This wasn’t molehills into mountains. There were rarely molehills with bipolar. 

‘I’ve just been feeling really on edge. I’m finding it difficult to concentrate. I’ve had a lot of school work and work’s been busy, we’ve had to take on extra patients to cover for someone, so I’ve been feeling a little stretched thin. Plus,’ he scratched the back of his neck, ‘I’ve been getting a bit fixated on things.’ 

Sarah raised her eyebrows slightly, her sign for him to elaborate. 

‘I’ve been having obsessive thoughts, repetitive thoughts.’ He could feel the blush fan out across his cheeks. It never got easier to try and label everything that made his brain feel off. 

Sarah made a quick note on her pad and considered him. 

‘What in particular are these repetitive thoughts related to?’ 

Ian stared at the floor. His leg was bouncing up and down rapidly and he had to make a conscious effort to stop it. 

‘A guy,’ he said eventually and he chanced a look up at Sarah. Her face was professionally smooth as always. She gave a slight nod. 

‘A guy? Someone you know? A stranger?’

That was one of the things he liked about Sarah. She gave him options that made him think maybe he wasn’t being as crazy as he thought. 

‘No, no, I’ve met him. I mean, I’ve met him once. For about an hour. We didn’t talk much but I’ve met him.’

She smiled and he huffed out a laugh. 

‘Okay, so you’ve met him. What form are these obsessive thoughts taking?’ 

‘I just…I just can’t stop thinking about him.’

‘Thinking about him how?’

Ian frowned at her. She leaned forward slightly and gave him a small smile.

‘Ian, we’ve dealt with a few instances of obsessive thinking in our time together. They often follow the same pattern. Are you thinking about him coming after you? Posing a threat to your family? Being a danger to you?’

He emphatically shook his head. He knew those thoughts. He had a checklist for those thoughts. 

‘No. No, nothing like that.’

The slight eyebrow raise and he forced himself to take a breath. 

‘I can’t stop thinking about him in a romantic way,’ he said eventually, his voice now absolutely directed at his knees. ‘In a physical way.’

When she didn’t say anything Ian looked up and was amazed to see that she was smiling far more widely than she normally did. If he had to name it he’d say she was looking at him fondly. 

‘So, you met a man and now you can’t stop thinking about him? When did you meet him?’ 

‘Last Friday.’ 

‘That’s..’ she seemed to be counting backwards, ‘five days ago.’

He nodded. Five days when he’d thought he might stop thinking about Mickey and his ridiculously expressive face. Five days when that hadn’t happened. Five days when he’d requested all the information he could get about Mickey, including the missing arrest record. Five days of opening his scheduling app and thinking he could just swap Mickey’s session for another inmates and get him back into his office so Ian could work out if he was actually losing his mind again or if…well, he didn’t like to dwell on the other possibility because it seemed infinitely scarier. 

‘So you met a man you’re still thinking about five days later? Are you’re worried these thoughts are becoming overwhelming in the rest of your life?’ 

‘No, I mean, I’m still working and going to school and I’m sticking to my schedule, except for maybe a few late night study sessions here and there. Apart from thinking about him I’m doing okay,’ he admitted. ‘It’s just always there. The thoughts I mean. They’re always in my mind and I can’t stop drifting into them.’ 

‘And these are romantic thoughts? No straying into paranoia or panic?’ 

He shook his head again. 

‘Do you feel comfortable sharing a sense of the thoughts?” 

He looked at his knees and she waited. 

‘Normal stuff, I guess. Kissing him. Touching him. Looking at him. It’s not bad, it’s just not going away.’

Sarah closed her notepad and rested her elbows on her knees, steepling her fingers together. She had several rings on her fingers and sometimes when the sun was right in the room the one with the green stone would send little specks of light dancing around the ceiling and walls. 

‘When I met my husband,’ she started and Ian sat up slightly, ‘I was twenty one and just finishing the third year of my bachelor’s. I was meant to go home but a friend convinced me to stay for a party, a last campus hurrah. I saw my husband across the room of a mutual friend and we made eye contact for maybe thirty seconds before the friend I’d gone to the party with was spectacularly sick into the waste paper basket and I had to take her home.’

Ian said nothing. He tried to imagine this calm woman at college and thought he’d probably have wanted to sit next to her in class if only to feel better when the teaching got too dense. 

‘I took my friend home and the next day I drove to my parent’s. I spent an entire summer thinking about the boy I’d seen across the room. I imagined what would have happened if I’d walked over there. If he’d walked over to me. I tried to imagine what his voice was like. I wanted to remember everything about him, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled that I was sure I’d seen or maybe I’d just been reading too many romance novels. I even went as far as to try and draw him and believe me, Ian, I am no artist. I imagined our wedding, our children, our entire life together, and I hadn’t spoken so much as a word to him. I had no idea if he’d even taken a moments notice of me.’ 

‘But he had?’ Ian was leaning forward now and she smiled, nodding slightly. 

‘Yes, he had. When I got back to my college house after summer he was sitting on the steps. I thought I was having a full blown hallucination but he’d asked someone about me and he was sitting on my porch because my friend had told him when I was coming back. And I remember walking up to those steps and thinking I’d gone absolutely mad. I’d been imaging him for so long and suddenly there he was. And he didn’t sound anything like I thought he would. He sounded better. And it turns out our kids don’t look anything like I pictured them looking and our life is different but it’s just as good as I wanted it to be. But, Ian, the important part of this is that I didn’t know any of that when I was sitting in my room at my parent’s trying to draw the face of a boy I’d seen for thirty seconds across a crowded room.’

She leaned forward and touched the back of his hand lightly. They rarely touched except for the handshake every time he left and he looked at the place she’d tapped on the back of his hand before looking up at her. 

‘I know we need to be carefully about your reactions to things and I think it’s really good that you’ve come in to see me. We should absolutely keep an eye on this to make sure you’re maintaining and the meds are doing what they need to do. But, Ian, I don’t think this is directly related to your bipolar.’

Ian knew his mouth was a little open. 

‘I think,’ she continued, ‘that you’ve been very careful with where you’ve put your energies and feelings these past few years and that’s absolutely fine because you’ve been doing so well. I know that your past has made you wary of these kind of interactions and I recognise why this might be triggering some concerns. All that said, I think maybe you just like this guy and, Ian, that’s absolutely fine because the feelings that come with that can be scary and overwhelming. Maybe it’s a crush, I’m certainly not saying you should go off and marry him, but I’d really like it if you could try and embrace these feelings. Maybe enjoy them a bit. Because in the two years or so that we’ve been meeting I don’t think I’ve seen you talk about anything that’s made you look as terrified and hopeful as you did when you were talking about this guy.’ 

Ian stared at her and she smiled so softly back at him that for a moment he thought he was going to cry. He blinked quickly and she leaned back. 

‘So, why don’t we schedule a few weekly sessions to make sure that’s what we’re dealing with.’ She snapped open her notebook and began to jot some things down, giving Ian a few moments to collect himself. ‘You always have my number if this escalates and you have your checks to make sure you’re keeping yourself level. That all sound okay with you?’

He nodded and wiped his sweating palms on his jeans. 

‘We have a few more minutes. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

He’s a patient and he’s in jail, Ian thought, and he almost said it. He almost said it and he thought it would change every bit of advice she’d just given him if he did and maybe that’s what he needed. But he didn’t say it. He didn’t because when he thought about Mickey he didn’t think about the jail part or the patient part. He thought about the explosion of life that he’d seen in his doorway and the quiet fire he’d sense when they’d stared at each other. He thought about the micro facial movements that said so much and he thought that if he’d seen Mickey across the room at a crowded college party he probably would have spent a summer thinking about him and it would have been okay. 

So he didn't say it. He just shook his head and smiled. 

‘No, there’s nothing else. Thank you. That really helped.’ 

And he really meant it.


	7. At Arm's Length

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the ridiculous amount of time between updates. It turns out writing an MA dissertation takes up more brain power and time that you'd think so this fic went by the wayside. However, I've now handed in (go me!) and so I'm back with a vengeance and if anyone's still interested in reading this I am 100% back on board with it. 
> 
> Also, I know it's a slow, slow, slooooow burn but there's going to be kissing and pining and loving each other and all that good stuff down the line. They've just got to start trusting each other and figuring each other out. Silly, pretty, meant for each other boys.
> 
> This chapter is basically a part 1 of 2 with the next one. They finally start to talk. Thank god!

Mickey let himself be cuffed to the bench outside the therapy offices and planted his feet, staring directly at the wall ahead of him. He ignored the C.O knocking on Gallagher’s office door, pretended not to listen for the rumble of Gallagher’s request for a minute and went over his game plan. It had been a week and those seven days had given Mickey enough distance to view his first therapy session with Gallagher with some perspective. He was locked up, of course his mind was desperate for some kind of excitement, something beyond the fuckin’ mind numbing boredom of the day to day of prison life. Gallagher was hot, Mickey could admit that, and it had kick started something in him. He shoulda know better. He’d known there was no point when years of confinement stretched endlessly ahead but his time was ticking away and he’d let himself imagine, opened up the idea of a bigger life. It was no surprise that adding someone who looked like Gallagher into the mix had left Mickey a bit fucked up. 

So he’d started to shut it down. He’d stopped thinking about getting out, stopped taking imaginary walks down his street, stopped thinking about the tantalising promise of freedom. He’d packed it all away and now he just had to stick Gallagher into an equally neat box and get him the fuck out of his head. 

So Mickey’d made a plan. Mickey was going to talk. Mickey was going to talk until he realised that Ian was a yuppie prick who wasn’t worth the effort. He was going to shut this shit down by blowing up the fantasy Gallagher his mind had fuckin’ latched onto. He’d been spending too much time in his own head and it was time to get it sorted. As far as Mickey was concerned Gallagher was a pretty face that came in handy when he needed to get from 0 to 60 in his bunk after lights out, something he’d taken advantage of a lot the last seven days. He could deal with him just being that. Mickey was absolutely fine with that. Absolutely fuckin’ fine. 

************

Ian straightened the papers in Mickey’s file and took a deep breath. He was fine. He was ready. It was a crush. He could deal with a crush. He could enjoy a simple crush on an unattainable, and very probably straight man, and he could find the fun in the feelings. That’s what Sarah had suggested and that was his plan. 

He glanced down at the file again, even though he’d read everything in it several times. He’d been sent everything that was on the prison server but it had once again been absent an arrest record. He’d made another note to chase it up. The systems were so antiquated that he could well image it going astray and no one being any the wiser. All Mickey’s prison altercations were in there, though. He’d fought a lot. Really, a lot of fighting. 

So Ian had a crush on a violent prison inmate. That should be easy to remedy. Lose the image he’d built in his head and get to know the real man. Stop romanticising him because he had nice eyes and a good face. Ian could do that. 

He was ready. 

*************

‘Please sit down, Mickey.’

Gallagher hadn’t turned round from his computer and Mickey let himself drop into the seat as the C.O closed the door behind him. He glanced round. Gallagher’s office was a lot less cluttered than Paul’s had been. Mickey figured it was because Gallagher was new. Paul had been at the prison so long he’d stuffed his office with years of files and books. Mickey had quite liked that part of the hours he’d spent in that office, surrounded by clutter and mess. It had been as close to the outside as he’d gotten since he’d got locked up. 

Gallagher’s office was still bare. Mickey flicked his eyes over the half empty metal shelves. Nothing personal, no pictures. Probably just waiting until he could get the hell out of there and move into something that made more money. Yuppie college boy slumming it to look good on his resume. Mickey tongued the inside of his cheek and just stopped himself clicking his tongue. 

‘So, Mickey,’ Gallagher turned in his chair, a polite smile on his face, ‘how has your week been since we last met?’

Mickey almost laughed but settled for slowly raising his eyebrows. Was this guy serious?

‘Same as always,’ he said and watched as Gallagher’s face broke into a pleased smile. He’d obviously not expected Mickey to answer his question. He looked younger when he smiled, goofy and a bit lopsided. Mickey flicked his eyes away. 

‘The repetitive nature of prison is something that comes up a lot in my sessions with other patients. Is that something you find?’ Gallagher asked, pen poised above his paper. Mickey glanced back at him and shrugged slightly. 

‘Prison’s prison,’ he said, simply. What else was there? Gallagher spoke to enough of them to know. The days were long and usually the same. The things that differentiated them were usually not good. A good week was a dull one but that didn’t stop the days feeling endless.

‘You’re not that far from your possible parole date. That’s one of the reasons you’re in the program. Do you have any ideas what you’d like to do when you’re released?’

Eat a burger dripping with ketchup and mustard. Lie on the grass in the middle of the baseball field and get high. Shoot some shit with his brothers. Get a fuckin’ beer. Find someone to suck his dick. Get a full nights sleep. Shower naked.

‘I don’t think about that,’ he said, thumbing his lower lip. 

‘That’s understandable,’ Gallagher said and Mickey huffed. It made Gallagher raise his head from the note he’d been writing. He flushed slightly, a pink tinge across his cheeks. He put the pen down. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean that to sound like I know what it’s like. I obviously don’t. I just…’ He rubbed a hand across his neck and shrugged slightly. ‘I’d just really like to help you.’

‘Why?’ 

The question took Mickey by surprise. He hadn’t meant to ask it. Gallagher was getting paid. That’s why. It was his job. That’s why. The question hung between them and Gallagher looked like he was really considering it. Mickey opened his mouth to say something else, something that would push the conversation away, but Gallagher spoke before he could. 

‘I guess because there’s a lot of reasons people end up locked up and sometimes the line between prison and no prison is really thin. So much of not being in here is luck and so that’s got to work the other way too, right? Wrong place, wrong time, wrong set of circumstances. A small change and it might have gone another way. And if it had gone another way I’d like to think there’d be someone to help, someone who cared. I just…’ he paused again, ‘I just care about that.’

Well shit.

***************

Mickey was staring at him, blue eyes steady, and Ian felt like an idiot. Everything they teach says to keep it politely professional, at least at first, and here Ian was laying out his philosophy for a guy who’d barely said ten words. But Mickey had asked and he was talking and that had to be a good thing. And he was looking at Ian as if he was at least slightly interested, which beat the flat expressions he’d gotten so far.

‘I know it sounds naive but that’s pretty much why.’ Ian shrugged again and glanced down at his notes. He could feel Mickey’s eyes still on him. 

‘So,’ he said, trying to get a professional handle on himself, ‘one of the things that often helps is a release plan, a visualisation of the steps you’re going to take following your release. We can work on one together, make sure it works for you, and while we work through we can address any areas that might be concerning you, things we can work on together.’ 

Mickey was shaking his head. 

‘Don’t need that,’ he said.

‘You don’t?’

Mickey shook his head again. 

‘Nope. I’m going to do my time and get the fuck out of here. Don’t need to be more complicated than that.’ 

‘But together we can make it so when you get out you can adjust…’, Ian trailed off under Mickey’s baleful stare. 

‘Ain’t going to freak out just ‘cause I’ve been locked up for a while. World ain’t going to have changed that much. Not like I’m going to walk out and suddenly there’s flying fuckin’ cars.’

Ian laughed, quick and surprised, and Mickey raised an eyebrow. 

‘No,’ Ian said. ‘You’re right, there aren’t flying cars but there are things I can help you with. Sometimes the transition can be difficult and we can work to make it easier.’

‘Already did that with juvie. Ain’t that different.’

‘You were in juvie?’ Ian asked and Mickey frowned slightly. 

‘Ain’t that in my file?’ Mickey asked and Ian shook his head. 

‘No, but I’m still waiting on some files. It sometimes happens when patients come from another councillor.’ 

‘Well, I already did all that shit with juvie. It’s not a problem.’

‘How many times were you in juvie?’ Ian asked. 

Mickey looked like he was considering not answering but Ian waited. 

‘Enough,’ Mickey said eventually. 

‘Look, Mickey,’ Ian leaned forward and tried to ignore the fact that Mickey was that little bit closer. He smelt like carbolic soap and smoke. Ian refocused and rested his forearms on his knees. ‘I’m here to help you not come back to jail.’

Mickey snorted. 

‘Don’t need any help there. Got a very solid plan to not fuckin’ get caught doing anything that’ll send my ass back to jail. Six years is more than enough for me.’

‘And I can help with that. I mean, did Paul talk to you about any of this?’

Mickey tongued the inside of his cheek and shrugged.

‘I have some places we can start. Let me just print off one of the sheets.’ Ian swung round to face this computer, clicking open a file and searching for what he needed.

‘How’s he doing?’ Mickey said from behind him and Ian frowned, turning back to Mickey, who was thumbing his bottom lip again. 

‘Excuse me?’ 

‘Paul. He doing okay?’ Mickey’s eyes were flicking around the room. If Ian had to guess he’d say he was embarrassed to have asked.

‘Erm, yeah. Well, I mean no, he’s off at the minute. But he’s…I think he’s doing okay.’ Ian felt like an idiot again. He didn’t know how Paul was doing. He hadn’t really asked. Mickey eyes had settled on Ian and he was looking strangely unsurprised. 

‘Figures,’ Mickey said. 

‘What figures?’ Ian asked, settling back into his chair, the computer forgotten. 

‘Figures you wouldn’t know how he’s doing. Seemed like nobody gave a shit how he was doing. Bet his kid hasn’t even come see him even though he’s sick or whatever.’

It was the most Mickey had spoken and there was an indignant set to his expression. He face really was ridiculously expressive, Ian thought. 

‘His kid?’ Ian felt like he was playing catch up.

‘Yeah, his kid. The one that lives in fuckin’ Nevada or Arizona or some place with a desert. Some place hot. Some place that Paul burnt like a fuckin’ mother when he visited. Pasty bastard.’

It was on the tip of Ian’s tongue to say that Mickey could hardly talk about pale skin but he stopped himself. 

‘Paul told you all this?’

‘Fucker liked to talk and I sure as fuck wasn’t doing any talking.’

‘And you remembered it all?’

Mickey’s face hardened.

‘What? ‘Cause I’m in prison I’m too stupid to remember that some guy I talked to for four months has got a kid?’

‘A kid that lives somewhere with a desert. A kid Paul visited and got sunburnt.’ Ian shrugged. ‘It’s just nice that you remember. And, no, I don’t think you’re stupid.’ 

‘You don’t know me,’ Mickey said and he looked uncomfortable. Was it the tiny amount of praise? Ian wondered. 

‘No, I don’t,’ Ian said. ‘But I’d like to.’


	8. Talk Like You Know Me

Nobody wanted to to know Mickey. 

That’s what Mickey wanted to tell him. You might think you want to but there’s nothing but darkness and mess. Nobody wants to get close to that, not even a guy whose job it is to try and sort it out. There’s not enough money in the world for a therapist to get to know Mickey. Better to just to leave it alone.

He scratched his cheek and shrugged. 

‘Not much to know. Not that deep.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Gallagher said and Mickey’s eyebrows shot up.

Gallagher narrowed his eyes and there was a small smile, something cocky and knowing that had Mickey’s eyes flitting over the room again. Gallagher leaned forward and Mickey worked not to shuffle backwards. He smelt like mint body wash, fresh and clean, and Mickey struggled not to wipe his palms on his worn prison uniform, feeling grubby and stupidly off balance. 

‘Got nothing to do with what you believe,’ Mickey said. ‘I’m not here for you to work out my fuckin’ childhood trauma and try and fix me. I don’t need that, Gallagher.’

‘I never said you did. I’m not here to fix you, not in the way people think about therapists. I’m here to help you…’

‘Don’t need help,’ Mickey interrupted and he can hear the brittle bite of it and he hopes it sounds like anger rather than fear but there’s something soft in Gallagher’s eyes. He wants to push Gallagher back, make a bit of space. 

‘Everyone needs help sometimes,’ Gallagher said and Mickey huffed. ‘And I thought we agreed on first names. Ian.’ He touched his chest lightly and then gestured to Mickey. ‘Mickey.’

Mickey rolled his eyes and huffed out another breath. 

‘Not fuckin’ five, Gallagher.’

Gallagher grinned and he looked so young and goofy that Mickey had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself smiling back. Everything about this kid screamed clean goodness and Mickey could feel his fingers itching to reach out and mess him up just a little bit. He could imagine Gallagher looked good messed up, just the right side of wrecked. 

Mickey bit hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself following that thought down. He was supposed to be shutting this down, not wondering what Gallagher’s hair looked like post fuck. Stupid fuckin’ thought. Stupid stupid. 

‘Look, I didn’t ask for this fuckin’ therapy shit,’ he said, desperate to say something to stop himself spiralling into whatever the fuck his imagination wanted. ‘I don’t need it, I don’t want it. Paul got that, what’s it going to take for you to get it?’

Gallagher seemed to be considering it. He was still leaning forward, slightly more in Mickey’s space than Mickey liked, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Like some giant eager puppy, Mickey thought. Stupid. 

*****************

Mickey looked nervous. Ian liked that Mickey looked nervous. Ian liked it more than he should and right at that moment he wasn’t doing anything to stop it. Because nervous Mickey’s eyes were dilated and he kept doing that thing with his tongue in his cheek and it was driving Ian a little crazy. 

He should lean back. He should put a little bit of professional distance between them. But Mickey has listened to Paul when he’d talked about his kid. And Mickey was sulky and defiant in a way that didn’t scare Ian but made him want to wrap his arms tightly around him, wrestle him to the ground and hold him until that frantic panicked look slowly slipped away. Mickey was funny and quick and stupidly good to look at. 

Mickey was a problem. A really interesting problem. And he really didn’t want Ian to be his therapist.

Mickey fidgeted, a perfect picture of nervous energy. His fingers tugged at the knee of his loose fitting trousers and his eyes were flicking between Ian and the rest of the office. 

‘Fuckin’ what, Gallagher?’ he snapped eventually.

‘Ian,’ Ian said, not sure why it mattered to him but it did. Mickey narrowed his eyes and Ian smiled, which seemed to confuse him even further. 

‘Whatever,’ Mickey huffed and Ian felt himself grin. 

‘So,’ Ian said, forearms still resting on his knees. ‘You don’t need therapy help. Even though I think everyone could benefit from it, it’s not for you. You still have to spend an hour here every week, at least.’

‘What do you mean ‘at least’?’ Mickey asked, eyebrows knitted together. 

Ian shrugged. He knew before he said it that he was playing dangerously close to the edge of not okay. He knew there were things he could do that would push this, things that were flirting with more than just tangentially enjoying the fully body buzz Mickey apparently produced in him at his mandated session. Like seeing him more than once a week.

‘If we feel it’s going well, it’s possible to schedule more sessions to build on the progress.’ He didn’t let Mickey speak, though he could tell he wanted to. ‘So, at least an hour a week in here. But no need for therapy. So, are we going to sit in silence?’

Mickey gave the tiniest shrug. 

‘Seems a bit pointless. A waste of both our times. Maybe,’ Ian paused. Pushing it, he thought. You’re going to keep pushing it. ‘Maybe it’s the combination of therapist and patient. Maybe it would work better for you if you had a different member of the team?’

‘No.’ 

Mickey said it so quickly that Ian knew he hadn’t meant to. Ian felt something inside him preen and when he noticed the slight red of a blush on Mickey’s neck the feeling seemed to stretch and settle a little closer to what Ian wanted. Push, push, push.

He let the silence tick over for a few seconds and then held his hands up in a slight shrug. 

‘Okay, so what are we going to do for an hour each week?’

He watched Mickey’s eyes. He watched them flick along the shelves. Watched them darted a quick look at Ian’s face. Watched them as they settled for a heartbeat on Ian’s mouth, flit away and then back. Ian wanted to punch the air. Maybe. Maybe.

Mickey’s eyes met Ian’s.

Maybe.

****************

Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t look at his mouth. 

‘Okay, so what are we going to do for an hour each week?’

Fuck. 

Mickey looked at his mouth. 

*****************

Mickey looked away first and Ian had a moment of giddy excitement before he remembered.

Still a therapist. Still a patient. 

He leaned back in his chair and Mickey seemed to release a little of the tension that Ian hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. Ian felt a slight stab of guilt. He was in a position of power, a position of trust and he was thinking with his emotions. It was like Mickey bypassed all his training. Ian took a breath. 

‘Why don’t we just chat?’ Ian said.

Mickey looked skeptical.

‘Chat?’ He said the word as if he’d never heard it before and Ian grinned. Bring it down, he told himself. Make it easy for him, make him feel safe. Be a better therapist. Outside of the magnetic draw Mickey seemed to have on him, Ian really did want to get to know him. Mickey fascinated him.

‘Yeah, chat. It’s an hour, right. Well, let’s lose the therapist and patient thing and just chat.’

Mickey still didn’t look convinced and when Ian held his hand out his eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. 

‘What the fuck?’ he said and Ian smiled more widely. 

‘Hi, I’m Ian.’

Mickey’s tongue was in his cheek again but Ian ignored it. He tried to make his face as open and friendly as possible. His hand was still extended and it seemed like a long time before Mickey raised his own arm. Ian didn’t think he was going to. His palm was warm and dry and Ian tried to ignore the jolt he felt at the contact but it was hard. Instead he moved Mickey’s hand up and down a couple of times and stared at Mickey expectantly. 

‘What’s your name?’ he eventually prompted. 

‘Gallagher, this is stupid.’

Ian shook his head and raised his eyebrows, determinedly giving Mickey’s hand two more shakes. 

‘Hi, I’m Ian,’ he said again. Mickey’s palm was getting slightly sweaty in his. Ian ignored it. 

‘Mickey,’ Mickey said eventually and Ian released his hand. 

‘Nice to meet you Mickey. Where’d you grow up?’

‘Gallagher,’ Mickey said, sounding as if he was both warning Ian and pleading, but Ian shook his head again. 

‘Come on, it’s this or silence. Let’s try this.’

Mickey rubbed his thumb across his eyebrow and Ian could see him thinking of reasons not to. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring and safe way. 

‘Just chatting,’ he said, palms open and welcoming, and Mickey huffed out the smallest of laughs. Ian grinned. 

‘South Side,’ Mickey said eventually and Ian relaxed back into his chair. 

‘No way. Me too,’ Ian said and he was surprised at Mickey’s scowl. ‘What?’

‘You’re South Side?’

‘Born and raised.’

‘Bullshit.’

Ian laughed and he thought Mickey might have almost smiled. There was a definite quirk to the right side of his mouth. 

‘No bullshit. 100% South Side.’

‘You don’t seem South Side.’

Ian raised his eyebrows. 

‘I don’t?’

Mickey shook his head. His eyes flicked over Ian’s whole body and Ian felt a flush of heat that he tried to ignore. 

‘Too clean,’ Mickey said and Ian gave a bark of a laugh that absolutely made Mickey smile. Something in Ian’s stomach tripped over itself. Mickey had a great smile. Mickey had a great face. Ian really liked his face. 

‘Definitely South Side. That where you live still?’ Ian asked.

Mickey looked at him like he was an idiot and Ian rolled his eyes. 

‘When you’re not in here,’ he said. 

Something careful and closed flashed across Mickey’s face and he shrugged, looking away. Okay, so home wasn’t a good choice. Noted. 

‘I got a flat, had to get out of my families house. Too many people,’ Ian said, plowing on, letting himself wash over the room in an attempt to clear the awkward tension Mickey’s outside life had caused. ‘Not that I’m there much. Between here and college,’ he gave a slight shrug. 

‘Where do you go to school?’ Mickey asked, obviously pleased not to talk about home. 

‘State,’ Ian said. ‘Go Cougars.’

Mickey rubbed the back of his neck. 

‘I wasn’t big on school.’ He looked embarrassed. Ian didn’t like it. 

‘Me either,’ Ian said quickly. ‘Never finished High School. Got my GED eventually.’

Mickey’s fingers were pulling at the knees of his trousers again. 

‘Yeah, I did that in here,’ Mickey said, glancing up at Ian and then back down quickly. He shrugged, every movement trying to convey how much it didn’t matter, how much it wasn’t a big deal. It was all so carefully managed. No scope for feeling proud. ‘Not much to do in here. Passed the time, you know.’

Careful, Ian thought. There’s a time to push. Not this. Careful.

‘I almost failed the math,’ Ian said, which was true. 

Mickey quirked an eyebrow and Ian smiled, wanting to nudge Mickey’s leg with his own but resisting. 

‘What? Trigonometry’s hard.’

Mickey smiled again and Ian’s stomach swooped to somewhere near his knees. 

*************

This was okay, Mickey thought. This was easy. He ignored how weird it was that it was easy. 

‘I did okay in Trig. Not so great in the reading. Not a lot of books in my house growing up.’ Mickey didn’t know why he’d mentioned his house again. Gallagher had moved over the awkwardness and Mickey had pulled it right back. 

‘Me either,’ Ian said. He was lounging back in his chair, legs stretched out to the side, and he really did look like someone just having a casual conversation. Mickey didn’t let himself relax quite as readily. ‘But my little sister was really helpful. She actually graduated so she helped me out. You use the library in here?’

Mickey nodded. The library was pretty much a joke but he’d pulled enough together to scrape a pass. He remembers the shock when he’d got the letter to say he’d actually done it, actually passed. He still had it, pushed in between the pages of a magazine in his locker. 

‘Yeah, it’s not great though.’ 

‘Really?’ Ian said and he sat up slightly. 

‘Hardly any books, nothing that really helped. I mean, it’s fuckin’ prison so not a big shock.’

‘Hmmm,’ Ian said and he reached for his pen and notebook. ‘Might be able to do something about it though.’ He scribbled something down and then dropped the notebook at the side of his chair again. ‘Help someone who’s not as smart as you,’ he said grinning and Mickey felt himself bristle. He felt his spine straighten almost without knowing he was doing it. Ian obviously felt the change because he frown slightly. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he said and he could hear the change in his voice, the hard edge. 

Ian sat up fully. 

‘No, I obviously said something. What?’

Mickey thumbed his lip. Stupid stupid stupid. 

‘Already told you that just ‘cause I’m in prison doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’ Mickey’s heart was pounding. He forced the muscles in his arms to relax. Ian’s frown deepened. 

‘I know. I just said you were smart,’ he said. 

Mickey’s laugh was harsh. 

‘Fuckin’ mock me, man. I know the library’s shit, I know a GED’s fuckin’ whatever…’ His fingers had curled into fists. He knew he wasn’t smart but fuck it didn’t mean Gallagher got to look down at him from his fuckin’ college heights.

‘Mickey,’ Ian said, leaning forward. Mickey ignored him, chewing the inside of his cheek. ‘Mickey, stop. A GED isn’t whatever and the fact that the library's shit and you got it anyway is absolutely not whatever. I wasn’t mocking you.’

Mickey couldn’t look at him. He could see Gallagher trying to catch his eye, ducking his head slightly. 

‘Mickey,’ he said again but Mickey stared down at his own knees. Slowly, carefully, just out of the top of his eye line, Mickey saw Gallagher reach out and gently touch his knee. He pushed his fingers into Mickey’s kneecap ever so slightly. 

‘Mickey,’ he said, softly, and Mickey looked up despite himself. They were close, too close, but Mickey couldn’t find it in himself to look away. Gallagher looked serious and sorry. ‘I swear I wasn’t mocking you, Mickey.’

Mickey nodded and looked down, started to walk himself back from the embarrassed anger, but Gallagher was still talking and his hand was still on Mickey’s knee. His thumb was moving the tiniest amount, gently brushing back and forth.

‘Getting your GED, that’s a big deal.’ Mickey shook his head but Gallagher pushed his knee with his fingers. ‘It is. You should be proud of yourself, Mick.’

Mickey’s head snapped up. Nobody called him Mick anymore. He wanted to correct him, tell him no, but it sounded okay when Gallagher said it. It sound kind of right. Mickey swallowed and gently pushed the fingers off his knee before it got out of hand. 

‘Alright, Gallagher, calm down. I didn’t cure cancer.’

He got the messaged and dropped back into his own chair. Mickey could feel the part of his knee where his fingers had been, as if they’d burned through the thin material of his trousers. 

‘So, you’ve got a sister?’ Mickey asked, keen to get a bit of distance and space. His heart was pounding in his chest. Gallagher nodded.

‘Two sisters. Three brothers,’ he said and he smiled as if he liked them. ‘You can see why I wanted my own place. It’s quiet.’

If he needed to Mickey was going to blame the next question on the fact Gallagher had touched his knee and he could still feel his fingers even though he’d moved back. 

‘What, no rugrats running around?’ he asked and Gallagher laughed. 

‘God no,’ he said. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Girlfriend?’ 

Gallagher looked up at him and Mickey raised an eyebrow, trying to seem like his chest wasn’t aching from how hard his heart was beating. Gallagher huffed out the slightest of laughs and shook his head. 

‘No girlfriend,’ he said. 

‘Wife?’ Mickey knew he didn’t have a ring. 

Gallagher looked at him steadily and slowly shook his head. His tongue darted out and wet his bottom lip before he answered. 

‘No, Mickey. No girlfriend, no wife.’

The air was suddenly thick and Mickey scrambled for something else to ask, to change the course of the conversation. Gallagher…Gallagher with no girlfriend or wife…shit…Ian tilted his head slightly.

‘What about you, Mick? Got a girlfriend waiting for you? Wife?’ 

Maybe Mickey was imaging it but Ian seemed to have gone very carefully still. Mickey let his eyes flick over Ian’s face before they landed on his eyes. He held his gaze and it suddenly felt very important that he keep the eye contact. Slowly, deliberately, Mickey shook his head. 

‘No,’ he said, amazed at how steady his voice was. He felt like his entire body was vibrating. ‘No girlfriend, Ian. No wife.’ 

Ian didn’t move and Mickey let himself keep the eye contact going, feeling like he was standing on the edge of something, balanced so precariously close to the brink. 

The knock on the door made them both jump. Heat flooded Ian’s face and he snatched up the pad and pen just as the door opened. 

‘Here for Milkovich,’ the C.O said and Ian nodded, looking critically at the pad Mickey knew had almost nothing on. 

‘Great. If you can give me one minute, I just need to organise another session with Mr Milkovich,’ he said and his eyes flicked to Mickey’s before he spun round on his chair and began to tap at the computer. Mickey stood, determined to keep his face impassive as the C.O came to stand beside him. No cuffs this time because this guy wasn’t a power hungry sadist but Mickey kept his hands together in front of him. Basic muscle memory.

Ian turned back round and seemed momentarily surprised to see Mickey standing. 

‘Right, I think we made some good progress today, Mr Milkovich,’ he said, almost too brusquely and a little too loud. Thankfully the C.O was looking bored and eager to leave. Ian plowed on. ‘As we discussed I think a second session next week as well as the usual Friday will be beneficial. I’ll put in the request for Monday afternoon and we can continue exactly where we left off.’

He made deliberate eye contact with Mickey until Mickey nodded and then he got to his feet and held his hand out. Mickey took it. 

‘A good session, Mr Milkovich. I look forward to Monday.’ 

Mickey nodded again and then the C.O was taking the top of his arm and leading him out of the office. Mickey resisted the urge to glance back but he knew he hadn’t imagined the firm and deliberate drag of Ian’s fingers across his palm or the way he’d held Mickey there for just a moment too long. 

As the first gate back into central holding opened, Mickey clenched his hands together and let his own thumb rub across his palm, trying to replicate the sure and hot pressure of Ian’s skin on his. 

Monday. Two days.

So much for shutting it down.


	9. Listen, That's Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for the nice comments. Blows my mind that people are reading the story that's been in my head. It's mad!

Ian flipped his coffee cup over and watched Fiona carry two plates from the kitchen and slide them in front of an old couple sitting across the diner. She smiled and fussed and generally made them feel like they were all she had to deal with and he watched them lean towards her and smile back. She was everything a good waitress should be and Ian found himself smiling fondly as she bustled around them but when she turned back to the counter he watched as the smile slipped a little. She looked tired. He raised his hand to catch her attention and he liked that the smile on her face when she saw him was all genuine Fiona. She scooped up the coffee pot on her way over. 

‘Hello you,’ she said, pressing a kiss to his temple. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

She poured him a coffee, glanced around to check her tables and slid in opposite him, turning a cup over for herself. 

‘Everything okay?’ she asked and Ian, who had braced for the underlying worry and concern, managed to feel only slightly annoyed. He took a mouthful of coffee and nodded. 

‘Everything’s fine. I can’t just drop in on my sister for breakfast?’ He tried to look open and stable and clear and he watched her dart a quick look over him, checking for signs of depression or mania. But he knew what she’d see and it was okay; there were no dark smudges under his eyes, his clothes were fresh and laundered and his hands were steady around his cup. ‘I’m fine, Fiona.’

‘You look good,’ she said, her head slightly tilted. ‘You look happy.’ She narrowed her eyes and considered him. ‘Are you seeing someone?’ 

He laughed and she looked almost startled. He usually approached all conversations about his love life with Fiona with a careful distance but she was right. He looked happy because he was happy. Try as he might he was riding the high from his hour with Mickey the day before. He’d gone home with a bounce in his step that had made Ana question him about his weekend, which could only be filled with excitement and thrills if his mood was anything to go by. When he’d told her he had a paper to write and a plan to try and beat his personal best over six miles she’d called him a liar who was holding out all the best gossip. He’d laughed and nudged her with his shoulder and she’d shoved him back, less than gently, telling him he was being weirder than usual. He’d woken up to soft early morning sunlight and he had beaten his personal best, marvelling even as he ran at the beautiful sunrise and the smell of summer on the air. He was feeling good. 

‘Just happy, Fi,’ he said. ‘Work’s going well. School’s good. It’s the weekend.’ He opened his hands to encompass the diner. ‘I thought I’d treat myself to breakfast before working on a paper that’s due next week.’

‘Hmmm,’ she said, sipping her coffee. The bell over the door jangled and she slid out of the booth. ‘There’s something going on. A sister always knows,’ she said, wagging a finger at him as she walked away. ‘Eggs?’ she asked over her shoulder, grabbing some menus for the table who’d come in. 

‘Pancakes.’

She raised her eyebrows before turning and welcoming her customers. He grinned, watching her deposit menus to the adults and a cup of crayons to the young girl who beamed as Fiona complimented her dinosaurs t-shirt. He poured himself another coffee from the pot she’d left on the table and dug into his rucksack to find his phone. He had a text from Ana, a picture of her buried under her duvet, hair stuck up in all directions, her cat just visible stretched out on the pillow next to her. He took that as a no to his invite to breakfast. She had spent most of the evening before messaging him a detailed play by play of the terrible date she was on. Given the cat was in pride of place next to her in bed Ian could imagine how well it had gone.

‘I know there’s something happening because you’re ordering carbs,’ Fiona said, sliding a plate of pancakes, scrambled eggs and crispy bacon in front of him. ‘Carbs are your happy treat food.’ 

‘Today’s a happy treat food kind of day,’ he said, grabbing the syrup and generously drizzling it over his pancakes. Fiona watched him and he sighed, putting his knife and fork down. He reached out and took one of her hands. ‘This is okay happy. I promise. Meds are still doing their thing, I’m level and I had a session with my therapist to make sure.’ She opened her mouth but he cut her off. ‘Work and school have been busy and I wanted to make sure nothing slipped past me, that’s why I checked in with her. She’s happy. In fact, she thinks I’m doing really well.’

‘I think you’re doing really well, too.’

He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. She really did look tired and it made something in him ache. He didn’t want to be another worry to her. 

‘I know you do. I’m okay. I really am.’

She gave his hand one last squeeze and smiled. 

‘Eat your eggs before they get cold,’ she said, tempering the brusqueness with a gentle brush of fingers across his forehead. 

The pancakes were good. He’d run hard and fast that morning and his body was keen to absorb the heavy, sugary meal. He ate slowly, watching the bustle of the diner, and noticing the family Fiona had seated close to him. The girl with the dinosaur t-shirt was happily colouring and her parents were both absorbed in their phones. They could easily have been mistaken for a family going out to ignore one another but Ian could see the interlinked hands of the adults under the table, the gentle back and forth of the woman’s thumb over the top of the man’s hand as their combined hands rested on her thigh. He saw the way the girl glanced up every now and again to watch her parents and she looked happy and calm, content to draw and know that they were there. They look like a little bubble of serenity in the busy diner and Ian enjoyed watching them as he finished his meal. So many times in his life he’d chased the high of living, the adrenaline rush of excitement, but he’d found himself craving something different recently. He wanted the excitement that came with loving someone and being loved but he also wanted to feel that sense of security of knowing, of being sure, of feeling certain of a person. He watched as the woman leaned over to look at her daughter’s drawing, letting go of the man’s hand to point at something, and he casually raised his arm across the back of her chair, leaning in as well, and let his fingers stroke the back of her neck. Ian craved that, that easy touch, that open love. 

He dropped some bills on the table, including a generous tip for Fiona who would scold him for it the next time she saw him, and scooped up his rucksack. He waited for Fiona to top up a table with coffee and make her way over. 

‘You all set?’ she asked and he nodded. 

‘Places to be, papers to write,’ he said and readily hugged her back when she leaned in. She held on a few seconds too long and he gave her a hard squeeze. 

‘I really am doing okay,’ he said softly in her ear and he felt her breath hitch as if she were trying to hold it together. Her eyes were wet when she pulled away and he scrunched his nose up at her. ‘Sappy,’ he said and she laughed. 

‘Go away,’ she said, giving him a gentle shove. ‘Go write smart things. Come for dinner next week if you’ve got time.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said, shouldering his way out the door and raising his hand in farewell. It was a clear, warm day and he turned in the direction of his apartment but rather than walk straight back he stopped two blocks from the diner at a bus stop. His fingers curled around the piece of paper in his jacket pocket and he lent against the pole waiting for the 152. He tried to ignore the sudden nervous beating of his heart, focusing instead on the warmth of the sun and the ache in his limbs from his morning run. 

The bus was pretty much empty and he dropped into a seat near the front, making sure he could see the street names through the window. He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and tapped the address into his phone. The bus number was circled at the top where he’d scribbled it the night before as he’d plotted the best route from the diner. Alternating between glancing out the window and down at the little blue line on the map on his phone he pressed the button for the bus to stop and got out in a neighbourhood he didn’t know.

Paul lived in West Town. Ian had got his address from the central database. He’d been worried he’d need to ask someone but the system just had it right there. He’d written it down and shoved the paper in his pocket, afraid someone would ask him just what he thought he was doing looking up his colleague’s private information but, of course, no one did. 

Ian followed his phone’s map to a building that housed a dry cleaners and a bakery. An alley ran along the side and he could see a set of metal stairs leading to an upstairs door. He pocketed his phone and glanced in the window of the bakery. The name looked Polish but Ian wasn’t sure. The pastries looked good and it seemed suddenly rude to show up empty handed. He ducked in and bought a box of cinnamon pletenka, breathing in the warm, yeasty air and lingering a little over his selection. Now he was so close he was starting to doubt his plan. 

The metal stairs creaked under him and he hesitated at the door. The number matched Paul’s address. Ian took a deep breath and knocked. A loud, deep bark came from behind the door and Ian stepped back as the dog inside began to snuffle along the gap at the bottom of the door. Ian could hear it sniffing the air, obviously keen to know who was on the other side. Ian heard shuffling steps and then Paul’s voice. 

‘Move out of the way, stupid creature,’ Paul said and then the sound of a chain being drawn back and Paul was peeking though a crack in the door. ‘Ian?’ he said, sounding shocked. He pulled the door open further and a large, wiry dog forced its head round to stare up at Ian, its tongue lolling comically from its wide open mouth. ‘Hold on,’ Paul said, pushing the dog back. ‘Do you mind dogs?’ 

‘No,’ Ian said. ‘No, I’m fine with dogs.’ 

‘Great.’ Paul had pushed the dog far enough away to get the door fully open. ‘Stay there, Miska,’ he said and the dog pushed up against his legs. ‘Sorry, she’s a ridiculous animal. No brains. She’s very friendly though. Come in, come in.’ 

Ian stepped into the small hallway and closed the door behind him. As soon as it was shut the dog slipped past Paul’s legs and leaned heavily on Ian’s, pushing against him and gazing up at him. He scratched her head and she wagged her tail, looking delighted. 

‘Come through,’ Paul said, moving down the hallway. Ian followed him into a small kitchen. Every surface was covered in something; books and figurines, papers and propped up art work. The effect was that of a snug, warm den. Paul moved over to the stove and lifted a metal stove top kettle. 

‘Tea? Or coffee? I have both.’

‘Tea,’ Ian said, feeling jittery enough. ‘Tea would be great.’

Paul pulled a cabinet open, it full of boxes and tins. He shuffled some things around. 

‘I have mint, green or…’ He picked up a tin and shook it, ‘I think this is earl grey.’

‘Green tea would be perfect,’ Ian said, feeling awkward. The dog had followed him into the room and was leaning heavily on his legs again. 

‘Sit down, where you can find a space,’ Paul said, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove. Ian awkwardly held the box of pastries out. 

‘I bought these, I wasn’t sure what you liked but they looked good.’

Paul took them and opened the box, smiling. He was a short man with a kind face. Ian had liked him as soon as they’d met. He projected an air of calm and certainty. When they’d let the rest of the staff know he’d gone off with stress Ian had been surprised. He’d always seemed completely unruffled. He looked that way now, taking pastries from the box and putting them onto two plates. The dog left Ian to sniff around Paul and he absentmindedly patted her head. 

‘This is very kind of you,’ he said, putting a plate in front of Ian and sitting down at the small table. He pushed a pile of papers out of the way and set his own plate down. He smiled at Ian and tore off a little of his pastry. ‘Very kind.’

‘I, erm, I just wanted to see how you were doing,’ Ian said, picking at his own pastry. 

‘That’s very nice of you,’ Paul said and Ian found it hard to meet his eye. ‘I’m doing much better.’

‘That’s great,’ Ian said, feeling awkward. ‘I…I should have come earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t.’

Paul smiled and tilted his head. Ian glanced down at the dog who was sitting staring at both their fingers breaking the sweet pastries apart. 

‘There’s no need to apologise. None at all. You’re kind to come and see how I’m doing. I’ve been thinking about you all. I know my going off will have put a lot of stress on you all. Are you coping?’

Ian nodded before he’d even finished asking. 

‘We’re fine. Really. Most important thing is you feeling better.’

Paul smiled and leaned forward, linking his hands together on the table in front of him. 

‘Ian,’ he said and Ian looked up. His eyes were soft behind his glasses and Ian felt his shoulders drop. He hadn’t realised how tense they’d been. ‘Although I really appreciate you coming by I think if we both continue with this very polite display of niceties we’re never going to get why you’ve actually come to see me. How about we go on from how I am, which really is better for having a bit of a break, and we talk more freely without worrying about standing on ceremony.’ He smiled and popped a chunk of pastry in his mouth before dropping some to the dog, who snaffled it up with pleasure. Ian grinned and nodded. 

‘Yeah, sorry. That sounds good. I really am pleased you’re feeling better.’

The kettle began to whistle and Paul quickly filled two mugs, placing one in front of Ian. 

‘So, what is it you need to talk to me about?’ Paul asked, not looking at Ian as he used the little string on his teabags to move it around his cup. 

‘Mickey Milkovich,’ Ian said before he could stop himself. Paul’s hand stilled and he dropped the teabag string and sat back in his chair. 

‘Ah,’ he said, stroking the dog who tried to lick the pastry crumbs from his fingers. ‘Mr Milkovich fell to you, did he?’

Ian nodded and Paul sighed. 

‘His…his file was very thin,’ Ian said carefully and Paul nodded. 

‘It certainly was,’ Paul said. ‘Mr Milkovich did not want to talk to me. I’m not sure he wanted to talk to anyone.’ He looked up at Ian who was trying to keep his face neutral. ‘Is he talking to you, Ian?’

Ian hesitated. 

‘A little,’ he said, finally. 

‘Well, then that’s more than I managed. And how are you finding him?’

Ian toyed with the string on his own teabag. 

‘He’s not what I was expecting,’ he said eventually and he was surprised at the pleased smiled on Paul’s face when he looked up. 

‘I would imagine,’ Paul said, ‘that Mr Milkovich is not what a lot people expect, including, I think, himself.’

Ian frowned. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘It’s complicated but I guess you might have expected that?’

Ian nodded and Paul smiled.

‘Well, I may not have got Mickey to speak but I did speak to him. I spoke to him a lot.’ Paul leaned back again, resting his hands on his rounded stomach, and seemed to consider something. ‘I have been sad for quite a long time, Ian,’ he said eventually and Ian wanted to stop him, tell him it was okay, that he didn’t need to share if he didn’t want to. But he also desperately, desperately wanted to hear about Mickey so he stopped himself. ‘I live a small life,’ Paul continued. ‘A nice life but a small one. I have a daughter but she lives quite far away and I’m not on good terms with her mother. I have been moving slowly through my life and I have been sad, I think, without realising it for a lot of that life.’

He looked up at Ian and his smile was so kind and so resigned that Ian put Mickey out of his head for a moment. 

‘When I began to talk in my sessions with Mickey it was an attempt to bring him out, to share as a way of making him feel okay with sharing. It didn’t work. He didn’t talk. But he did do something else. He listened, Ian. He listened to everything I said and I watched his face as I spoke. This wasn’t a man who was simply letting my words wash over him, he was taking in what I was saying and he was reacting. It became a fascinating experience. He would sit in my office for one hour a week and I would say everything in my head and he would absorb it and his face would twitch just the smallest amount and I would know if what I was saying was self indulgent or legitimate and he would always be correct.’

Ian could imagine it. Ian had spent barely any time watching Micke’s face but he thought a life time wouldn’t be long enough to study every tiny quirk and movement. 

‘A few sessions in I talked about the sadness I’d been feeling and I said, simply, that my life had not turned out how I had pictured it and he looked at me with those remarkable blue eyes and he said “Then change it”. I think it was one of the only things he said to me in the hours we spent together but it changed me. It changed me completely. I took some time away from work and I realised that I didn’t want to be unhappy anymore. But, and this is the crucial thing, it was his face as much as his words. I will never forget his face when he said it. I have never seen a young man look so wretchedly unhappy as he did when he gave me that blunt advice. And I knew as he was saying it that it was advice he didn’t believe he could ever follow.’

There was a lump in Ian’s throat and he stared down at his tea, cupping his hands around the warm mug. Paul let the quiet sit and Ian swallowed several times. 

‘Why do you think that is?’ he asked when he was sure he could trust his voice not to crack. 

Paul sighed and took a mouthful of tea. 

‘I have my theories but I don’t know for sure. How much do you know about him, Ian?’

Ian shrugged. 

‘Just what’s in the file and the little he’s said. I can’t get a copy of his arrest record.’

‘I took it,’ Paul said and Ian’s mouth dropped open in shock. ‘At least I took the copy from his file and then I deleted it from the system.’

‘Why?’ Tampering with personal documents was a huge no in the therapy world and an even bigger one in the prison system. Taking private files home was a firing offence. 

Paul took another mouthful of tea and stroked the dog, who was leaning heavily at his side. 

‘You’re South Side, right?’ he said at last and Ian nodded, frowning. 

‘And…I don’t want to overstep here so feel free to stop me if I am…you’re also gay?’

It was such an unexpected question that Ian just stared at him for a few beats before he nodded. 

‘Yeah, South Side and gay,’ he said. 

Paul leaned back in his chair and nodded. He scratched the dogs ears and Ian waited as he seemed to come to a decision. 

‘It can’t have been easy,’ Paul said eventually. ‘Being a young gay man growing up South Side.’

Ian shrugged. 

‘I mean, it wasn’t ideal but I was lucky. My family were pretty much open to the idea. Life wasn’t easy so my being gay came pretty far down the list of things to worry about for everyone else.’ He watched Paul run the dog’s ears through his hand. ‘ What does my being gay and South Side have to with this?’

Paul sighed and leaned forward. 

‘Imagine being a teenage boy, growing up in a house sinking under the weight of poverty and anger and realising that you’re gay. I mean, maybe you don’t have to imagine too much, but imagine not having your family to fall back on. Imagine instead that all you have is a violent, homophobic, white supremacist father who talks about shooting fags in the same breath he talks about the latest odds at the track.’

There was something heavy at the back of Ian’s throat. He took several deep breaths. 

‘Imagine growing up under a constant barrage of hate and bile surrounding who you think you might be, trying to square the feelings you’re having with the consequences of even thinking about acting on them. It must be like growing up on a razor wire of fear. Always making sure, always checking, always keeping your guard up. Not letting anyone get close enough.’

Ian swallowed and tried to get enough saliva back in his mouth to speak. 

‘Mickey?’ he asked, his voice like a rasp. 

‘Mickey,’ Paul said with a small nod. 

Ian felt like he was slipping away a little. He’d thought - hell, he’d hoped and prayed - that maybe, possibly Mickey might be gay. But this? Never like this. 

Paul resumed scratching the dog’s head and kept going, seemingly unaware that every word was like a physical blow to Ian. 

‘He was eighteen when his father caught him with another man. They were in an alley behind a bar. Someone pulled the dad off before he killed Mickey, a brother I think, and someone walking by called the police but the dad had vanished, gone to ground. They didn’t think Mickey was going to make it. Reading all the medical reports I’m really not sure how he did. There were more bones broken than weren’t or at least that’s what it seemed like. He was in a coma for about a week, lots of bleeding on the brain, and…’

‘Stop,’ Ian said and Paul paused, watching Ian’s face closely. Ian could feel his pulse in his throat and he wondered if he was going to be sick. Something must have shown on his face because Paul stood, filling a glass with water and passing it to Ian. He took serval mouthfuls and breathed slowly through his nose. ‘Sorry, it’s just…it’s a lot.’

‘It is. It’s definitely a lot,’ Paul said and there was something a little too knowing in his eyes. 

‘Sorry,’ Ian said again. ‘Carry on.’

‘You sure?’ Paul asked and Ian nodded. Paul sighed. 

‘When he came round he started talking, started confessing to anything he could think of. Drug deals, beat downs, B and Es, petty theft. The cops were baffled because up until that moment he was the victim. They were after the father but Mickey knew his father well enough to know that the safest place for Mickey was behind several high walls and locked gates. So he confessed until he got something to stick. Six years for possession. He’d had a couple of stints in juvie so he’ll serve most of it. Six years of being safety out of reach of his father.’

Ian’s palm were slick with sweat. Paul was shaking his head with an expression of resigned anger that Ian knew well from working in the prison system. 

‘The father vanished. The beating on Mickey was his third strike. They catch him it’s throw away the key time. But until they do I think inside is the safest place for Mickey to be while his dad’s out there. Which means that there’s a smart, scared young man locked up while his attacker walks free. It makes me,’ Paul paused, ‘It makes me really quite angry.’

Ian felt himself nodding but he barely knew it. He could taste bile in the back of his throat but he swallowed and shook himself. 

‘So, you deleted his file?’ Ian asked and Paul shrugged. 

‘The way I see it Mickey is hiding. That file told the entire world who he is and he doesn’t want that, at least not right now. It felt like the right thing to do. I understand if you disagree.’

‘No, no, I think you did the right thing,’ Ian said. 

‘Thank you.’ Paul paused. ‘I’ll be honest, Ian, I wasn’t sure if anyone would care enough to follow up on the missing file. I certainly didn’t think Mickey would speak to anyone who might search out more information.’ Paul stared at Ian and Ian forced himself to stare back. ‘I was wrong on both counts and I’m very pleased about that.’

Ian glanced down and rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t touched his tea and his pastry was broken into small, uneaten pieces on his plate. 

‘I’m pleased,’ Paul continued, ‘that there might be someone who cares about Mickey inside that prison. I felt very bad walking away, though I wasn’t sure I was helping him as much as he was helping me. I’m very pleased he has you in his corner.’ Paul waited and Ian said nothing. ‘You are his corner?’

Ian looked up and Paul smiled, a small smile that Ian hoped meant he could trust him. Ian slowly nodded his head. 

‘Yes, I’m in his corner.’

‘Then Mickey’s very lucky to have you there.’

Ian felt the hot flush of tears at the back of his eyes and blinked quickly. He stood up and the dog jumped to her feet, tail wagging. Paul looked up at him. 

‘I should go,’ Ian said and Paul nodded. ‘I’m glad you’re doing better. Thank you…’ he paused, his chest tightening again. ‘Thank you for sharing all of that, I hope it will help me help…’ He couldn’t say Mickey. He could get his mouth to form the name without letting the tears fall but Paul nodded anyway. 

‘I hope it does as well.’ He stood up and led Ian along the hallway. Miska trotted along behind him and Ian patted her head as he passed. He paused in the open doorway and glanced at Paul holding the door open. He wanted to say something, not sure if he should be trying to cover his reaction in a more professional way or if he should be letting Paul in further, but he couldn’t find the words. Paul reached out and squeezed the top of Ian’s arm. 

‘Come back and see me soon, Ian. It’s been good to see you. Good luck.’

Ian nodded and stepped out. Paul smiled and closed the door and Ian heard the chain slide into place and the quiet murmur of Paul speaking to his dog. Ian made his way down the steps breathing through his nose and out of his mouth. He turned towards the street, paused and spun the other way, leaned down behind a dumpster and vomited over the alley floor. He heaved several times before he stopped, tears streaming down his face, hands rested on his knees. 

When he finally had control of himself he stood, wiped his mouth and cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, and made his way shakily to the mouth of the alley to catch the bus. He had a paper to write and a weekend to get through and then on Monday he had an hour with Mickey. He had a day and half to figure out how he was going to get through that hour without falling apart, to work out how to sit in that room and look at Mickey without thinking of what Paul had told him. He had a day and a half to plan how not to wrap his arms around Mickey as soon as he entered his office and hold him so tightly that the sadness and fear and anger Ian had sensed in him disappeared and the fire and life that attracted Ian was allowed to exist unchecked. 

As Ian boarded the bus he couldn’t even think where to start to make that happen.


	10. For What It’s Worth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a very brief allusion to sexual assault in this chapter. It’s not detailed but I wanted to warn anyone should they wish to avoid.

‘Do you have any information packets on PTSD?’ Ian asked, leaning against Ana’s doorway. ‘I’m all out and the printer’s playing up.’ 

Ana glanced up from the file she was reading and scowled.

‘That printer is older then both of us. What do you reckon are the chances of a new one if I put in a request?’ 

‘None to absolutely none,’ Ian said, dropping into a chair as she stood to search through a filing cabinet. He took the information packet she handed to him and flicked through it. He had plenty of patients who suffered from PTSD and he’d found there was something bluntingly effective in them seeing a list of the symptoms, symptoms that so often mirrored the behaviour they were trying to explain in themselves. He’d had more than one person express amazement at the idea that someone else had felt like they did on a daily basis. 

But he wasn’t sure it was going to work with Mickey. He’d thought about it all weekend, tried to strategise a plan to help him, but everything was muddied by the fact that he knew he was too invested. He cared about his other patients but he _cared _about Mickey and he was worried it was going to stop him helping him effectively.__

____

____

He toyed with the edge of the paper until he felt Ana’s foot prod his shin. He glanced up. 

‘What’s going on?’ 

He bit his lip and shrugged. She sighed and he watched her face transition to serious, therapy mode. She was very good at it, at flattening out her normal chaotic reactions and smoothing her edges until she was approachable and open. 

‘Close the door,’ she said and Ian shook his head. 

‘I don’t need...’ he started but she held up a hand. 

‘Two minutes. No pressure. Safe space,’ she said and he leaned back and pushed the door closed. The click of it shutting worked like an airlock and suddenly the world narrowed to just the two of them, sitting quietly. She didn’t push him. She didn’t say anything. Ian let himself breath for a few moments, just letting his body exist in the chair, aware of the tension in his shoulders, the dull weight of worry that seemed to be sitting somewhere in his stomach. He breathed in deeply.

‘It’s not a bipolar thing,’ he said and she nodded once, watching him. ‘It’s...it’s something but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.’ He forced himself to look her in the eye and speak clearly and certainly. ‘But I know you’re here if I need to.’

‘I’m always here,’ she said. ‘On a 1-10 scale how worried should I be about you?’

Ian considered it. He knew he was feeling more than he should for Mickey, knew he’d spent a lot of time thinking about him, knew that what he felt was happening quickly, but he also knew that the feeling wasn’t scaring him in the way it had at first. He wasn’t manic. He liked a guy and, yes, there were pretty serious problems and difficulties and he absolutely shouldn’t do anything about it but he didn’t mind wanting to. Especially not if he could help him. Someone needed to help Mickey and Ian wanted it to be him.

‘I think a 4,’ he said eventually. ‘Maybe a 5.’

‘And you’ll tell me if that ramps up?’

He nodded. 

‘I promise to key you in if I get anywhere near an 8,’ he said and she smiled. 

‘Why don’t we talk when you start to hover around 7 and I can prepare my concerned, control freak friend persona.’ 

‘How’s that different to your normal persona?’ he asked, grinning, and she jabbed him with her toe again, her face reverting back to her normal, free expression. 

‘Get out of my office. I am a very busy and important person.’ 

He laughed and as she turned in her chair he swooped down and gave her a quick, hard hug. 

‘I like all your various personas, especially the busy and important one,’ he said, his face muffled in her hair. She reached her hands up and squeezed the arm he had wrapped around her. 

‘I like your personas too, even if they’re going to turn me prematurely grey.’

He let her go and opened the door.

‘Grey’s very in right now. You’ll look hip and cool.’

She raised her middle finger at him, not looking up from the file she’d resumed reading. 

‘I’m already hip and cool. I don’t need to be Queer Eyed thank you very much.’

He snorted and turned to head back to his office, pulling her door closed behind him. The gate at the end of the corridor jangled open and he glanced up. Mickey. Ian stopped and waited for him to look up. The guard had hold of the top of Mickey’s arm. It was the same one who’d gripped him so hard the last time. Brooks, Ian thought. His fingers looked like they were digging in again but Mickey hardly seemed to notice. His head was down and he seemed ready to drop down onto the bench as he usually did but the guard roughly jerked his arm and Mickey stopped. 

‘The fuck, man?’ he said, eyebrows raised as he looked at Brooks. Brooks nodded down the corridor to Ian and Mickey glanced at him. Their eyes met for a moment before Mickey’s flicked away. Ian felt his heart stutter. There was dark blemish around Mickey’s left eye and even from halfway down the corridor Ian could see that the skin looked swollen and sore. 

‘That’s your councillor right? Or are you too stupid to look up? That’s how you walk into doors, Milkovich,’ Brooks said and he used the arm not holding Mickey’s upper arm to touch the swollen skin around Mickey’s eye. Mickey flinched back and Ian was suddenly moving. 

‘Stop,’ he said and he could hear the bite in his voice. Mickey looked up at him, eyes wide, but otherwise carefully still. He looked scared, Ian thought, and he forced himself to calm down. Brooks was looking at Ian with something close to disdain. 

‘Stop?’ he said and Ian saw his fingers flex around Mickey’s upper arm. 

‘He can come straight in today,’ Ian said, trying to pretend he hadn’t been planning on ripping the guard’s hand off Mickey. ‘He doesn’t need to wait out here. I’m all set.’

Brooks eyed him and Ian didn’t miss the way his gaze travelled over his body. Ian watched him note the hight advantage Ian had. Ian knew the shirt he was wearing stretched across his chest, knew it drew attention to the width of his shoulders. He knew because he’d spent time choosing it for that very purpose, though he hadn’t had Brooks in mind when he was getting dressed that morning. There was nothing but dislike in Brooks’ expression and Ian met his gaze with steady indifference. He didn’t want to make Mickey’s life harder but he also didn’t want Brooks to think he agreed with his methods. 

‘Yeah, that’s why I stopped him from sitting down,’ Brooks said eventually. ‘Milkovich here sometimes needs to be told what to do. It’s what comes of being institutionalised. Forget how to think for themselves.’

Mickey was completely still next to Brooks. He looked at if he was barely aware of the conversation, as if he had checked out. Ian’s anger was lapping at the edge of his control but he bit back his retort and made his way to his office. He watched Brooks uncuff Mickey, saw the red welt from the too tight cuffs, and waited for the C.O to leave. He hovered by the door and Ian looked at him, eyebrows raised. 

‘This isn’t his normal day,’ Brooks said eventually.

‘No,’ Ian said and Brooks opened his mouth, obviously intent on probing further. ‘Thank you. If you could close the door.’ 

A red flush spread from Brooks’ neck and he closed the door with more force than it needed. Mickey was just standing there, legs spread and feet planted. From this distance Ian could see that the angry stain of the bruise around his eye spread over the bridge of his nose and across his cheekbone. It made Ian feel sick to think that while he was eating pancakes or talking to Paul or writing his essay someone was hurting Mickey. 

‘You can sit down, Mickey,’ Ian said when the tension in the room became too much for him. 

Mickey dropped into one of the chairs but he wasn’t looking at Ian. He looked tired and pale and suddenly so young that it was making something in Ian physically hurt.

‘What happened to your eye?’ Ian asked and Mickey gave one of his small, barely there shrugs. Ian waited but he obviously wasn’t answering. ‘Does he always make the cuffs that tight?’ Ian saw Mickey glance down at the red mark before he shrugged again. He was like a solid brick wall and Ian didn’t know how to reach him. 

They sat in silence until Ian couldn’t take it anymore. Feeling like he was dealing with a very dangerous, unpredictable animal Ian reached his hand out so slowly, pausing just before he touched the skin on Mickey’s wrist. He glanced up, waited to see if Mickey would stop him, but he remained still, eyes fixed on a point beyond Ian’s head, chest the only visible part of him moving. Taking a quick breath, Ian brushed his fingers along the raised red mark, letting his thumb and forefinger stroke the hot, tender flesh. He kept his eyes on his own fingers, letting Mickey have the safe space of no eye contact to decide if this was okay, if Ian was allowed to gently touch him like this. He let his fingers glide slowly but purposefully, waiting. After several tense beats Mickey took a sudden, shuddering breath and Ian watched as one of Mickey’s fingers curled gently to brush the edge of Ian’s hand. 

******************

Mickey didn’t know when the last time was that someone had touched him so carefully. There was a chance it had never happened. Certainly no one at home had touched him as if he might break, as if it matter if their touches hurt him or not. He could feel Ian’s fingers on the painful welt on his wrist and he couldn’t help the deep, painful breath that seemed to stutter out of his chest. To his horror he felt the sudden hot stab of tears and he quickly blinked them away before they could fall. 

‘Mickey,’ Ian said softly, finger and thumb still gently brushing the inside of Mickey’s wrist. Mickey let his own curled finger just rest against the edge of Ian’s hand but he couldn’t bring himself to look at where they were touching or to meet Ian’s no doubt concerned gaze. He didn’t want to break down. That wasn’t how Mickey operated. But it had been such a long and painful weekend and Ian was touching him so carefully. 

Mickey took one more stuttering breath and carefully pulled his hand away. Ian’s hand remained outstretched for a few moments before he pulled it back towards himself. Mickey rubbed absently at the sore line around his wrist and shrugged slightly. 

‘It’s not a big deal,’ he said and he was pleased that his voice sounded steady. ‘It’s prison, Gallagher. Shit happens.’

‘Shit like your wrist isn’t supposed to happen. That’s not okay, Mickey.’

Mickey risked a glance at Ian’s face and almost huffed out a laugh. He looked angry and upset and, to Mickey, unbelievably naive. 

‘It’s a sore wrist. No one gives a shit about a small mark on a prisoners wrist. It’s nothing.’ There’s so much worse that can happen, Mickey thinks, but if he’s going to get everything back into its carefully kept boxes he’s not planning on opening up that topic any time soon. 

‘I give a shit,’ Ian said and Mickey believes him because he really looks as if he does and it’s surprisingly nice to think someone cares. 

‘That’ll get old, Gallagher. Just wait ‘til you’ve been here as long as Paul, I’ll be able to walk in in a full body cast and you’ll barely take a second glance.’ 

Ian’s eyes widen and an expression crosses his face that Mickey can’t quite place. 

‘Paul gives a shit,’ Ian said. ‘And I will always care. I care about your wrist and I care about what happened to your eye. Did Brooks do that as well?’

‘No. I walked into my cell door.’

‘Bullshit,’ Ian said and Mickey nearly laughed. 

‘What does it matter how I did it? It’s done.’

‘It matters because I don’t like one of my patients coming in looking like they went a couple of rounds in a prize fight and lost. I don’t like it, Mickey.’ 

‘You think I do? It’s my fuckin’ eye, man. My eye, my problem.’

‘Well, you’re my problem so I’m asking you, what happened to your eye, Mickey?’ 

There was something so disarming about Ian’s constant use of his name. As if they knew each other. As if they were friends. As if he genuinely gave a shit. Mickey thought about not answering him. He thought about lying. But Ian leaned further forward and touched the back of Mickey’s hand very gently with the tips of his fingers and Mickey looked up at him despite himself. 

‘Mick, what happened to your eye?’ 

And Mickey was done. He was tired and his eye hurt and he was done. He looked down at his knees. Ian let his fingertips rest on the back of Mickey’s hand and Mickey noted how smooth and round his fingernails were compared to Mickey’s chewed ones. 

‘I made a mistake,’ he said eventually. ‘Got into something that didn’t concern me.’

‘With another inmate?’ Ian asked and Mickey nodded. Ian moved his fingers ever so slightly, almost stroking the back of Mickey’s hand. It felt like a reward for talking. 

‘Yeah. Dumb shit and I should have known better but, you know, can’t teach stupid.’

‘You’re not stupid,’ Ian said. ‘What was the situation you got into? Can you tell me?’

Mickey huffed out a breath and Ian’s fingers moved more purposefully over Mickey’s skin. 

‘Guy I sort of look out for did a stupid thing. He...’ Mickey paused and glanced quickly up at Ian. He met Mickey’s look with a soft smile and Mickey glanced away. ‘He came onto someone he shouldn’t have. Stupid kid.’

Mickey had heard the muffled grunts and cries from down the corridor. Two guys had been outside the shower room doors, watching Mickey approach, and he’d known by their smirks that it was Jaxon in there. 

‘I, er, I managed to get to where he was at, had to get past a couple of guys and he was taking a pretty bad beating but I got him out before...’ Mickey paused again. ‘They hadn’t got any further.’

Mickey looked up in time to see Ian swallow. He had to know what happened in prisons. Mickey didn’t need to lay it out for him. 

‘But, you know, that’s not the kind of shit it’s easy to get away with. I’d waded in, disrespected the guy. My...the guy I helped had messed with the wrong person and he was getting a beat down. That’s prison. I got involved. Shouldn’t have done. Fuckin’ stupid.’

‘So why did you?’

‘I don’t know, man.’ Mickey shrugged, not knowing how to explain just how pathetic Jaxon had looked curled up on the floor, how much smaller he was than the guy doing the kicking, and how that hadn’t sat right with Mickey so he’d let himself react before thinking. ‘The kid’s real young and he’s green. It’s like kicking a fuckin’ puppy.’

He looked up to see Ian watching him, his expression soft. His fingers hadn’t stopped the gentle back and forth over Mickey’s hand. 

‘So, how do you end up with a broken face? Did you get it from the guys you had to get past?’

‘Fuck no,’ Mickey huffed. ‘Pair of pussys. Someone got disrespected. Debts got to be paid.’ 

Ian’s fingers stilled. Mickey didn’t want to tell him that he’d barely got a hit in before he’d been on floor. He didn’t want Ian to have to imagine the heavy boots kicking at his ribs again and again as Jaxon cried in the corner of the shower, apologising over and over. It had happened. It was done.

‘So they beat you instead?’

‘Enough to remind me to mind my business.’

‘Just your face?’

Mickey shrugged and Ian removed his fingers, straightening slightly.

‘Mickey? Just your face?’

‘It’s fuckin’ stupid to hit the face. Better to go for the ribs.’

Ian’s eyes snapped to Mickey’s shirted ribs and his hands twitched as if to touch. Mickey pulled back slightly and Ian dropped his hand. 

‘Are your ribs broken?’ His voice was so carefully controlled that it sounded like he was clenching his teeth. 

‘No. Just bruised. Trust me, I know broken ribs. It’s not a big deal, Gallagher.’ 

Ian’s head dropped forward and he ran his hand over the back of his neck. Mickey chewed his lower lip as he watched him obviously struggle with how to react. Before he could talk himself out of it Mickey reached forward and touched the back of Ian’s hand. Ian went instantly still, his eyes snapping up to meet Mickey’s. Mickey let his fingers rest there for the briefest of moments before he pushed into the skin gently and then withdrew. Ian huffed out a breath and clenched his fingers. He took a moment and looked at Mickey.

‘Just for the record, I will always care and I’m not okay with any of this happening.’ 

‘It’s prison, man,’ Mickey said and Ian shook his head. 

‘That doesn’t make it okay and I don’t care how long I work here I will never think it is. No amount of time will make me think it’s okay. And I don’t want it to happen again.’

‘I’ve got a year left, man. This shit happens.’

Ian shook his head. 

‘I’m serious, Mickey. It’s not okay.’

Mickey shrugged. Let Gallagher be an idealist if he wanted. Mickey would stick with reality. 

‘Whatever, man,’ Mickey said, keen to get the conversation onto less heavy ground. ‘Come visit me in twenty years we’ll see what you’re saying.’

Ian seemed to be pulling himself together. He sat back in his chair and, after a quick searching look at Mickey’s injured eye, seemed to force himself to relax slightly. 

‘Where do you think I’ll find you in twenty years?’ Ian asked. 

Mickey huffed out a laugh. 

‘Who the fuck knows. Probably in here.’

Ian frowned. 

‘Thought you weren’t planning on coming back to prison?’

‘Not planning on anything. But Milkovich, right? Fucked for life.’ Mickey was tired and sore and low on optimism. ‘Like Brooks said, institutionalised.’ He went to rub his eyebrow but it was the swollen one and he flinched away as he touched his skin. 

‘I don’t believe you’re fucked for life,’ Ian said and Mickey smirked. 

‘You don’t know me, man,’ he said. ‘Prison’s in the blood. This is what I’m built for.’

‘I don’t believe that either,’ Ian said. ‘I think you’re smart and funny and interesting and built for a hell of a lot more than just prison.’ 

Mickey thumbed his bottom lip. He was surprised at how much of him wanted to believe what Ian was saying, a part of him that he thought had died a long time ago.

‘I think,’ Ian continued, ‘I think you’re capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for and I wish I could think of a way to make you believe me.’

A hot flush of emotion swept over Mickey and he reacted before he’d really taken it all in. 

‘Shut the fuck up, Gallagher,’ he snapped out, hand raising to his injured eyebrow again. He scowled as he brushed it but the jolt of pain kept the sudden rise of feeling at bay and he did it again just to keep himself in check. Gallagher didn’t know him, didn’t know his life. He knew what he was worth and he’d made peace with it. 

‘No,’ Ian said and Mickey glanced up. Ian looked as annoyed as Mickey felt, a fire in his green eyes that Mickey had seen out in the corridor when Brooks had purposely pushed his injured eye. 

‘No?’ 

Ian nodded, his hands were clenched. 

‘No,’ he said again. ‘I’m not going to shut the fuck up. You might not like it, Mickey, but I’m not wrong and I’m not going to stop saying it. However long our sessions continue I’m going to keep telling you that you’re worth more than you think you are, that you’re obviously smart and capable and that I think you can do so much with your life. Often with abuse survivors...’ 

Mickey didn’t know he was on his feet until he was. Ian was startled into silence and he stared up at Mickey with wide, worried eyes. Mickey’s hands were curled into fists at his side and he could feel the low roar of adrenaline pulsing though him. It was making him slightly light headed.

‘The fuck did you just call me?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is essentially part one of two with the next chapter, which hopefully I’ll have up by Saturday night depending on the result of the Rugby World Cup and the level of celebrating required. Absolutely by Sunday. 
> 
> I really, really do appreciate everyone reading this. I haven’t written properly in years and this has given me the little jolt of confidence I needed. Thank you so much for that.


	11. Hail Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end of the chapter for potential triggers

Ian had fucked up. Mickey was practically vibrating with rage in front of him. He’d lost track of what he was saying in his eagerness to convince Mickey that he shouldn’t be so hard on himself, that he was worth more than he thought. It had been the combination of Mickey’s stepping in to help another inmate and the resigned look on his face when he just accepted the beating it had cost him, as if it were his lot in life to be kept down, to be hurt and have no one care about it. Ian cared. God, Ian really cared. But he’d let his mouth run away with him. 

Stupid, Ian thought. As if he was going to be able to undo years of mistreatment with a muddled rant about how funny and clever Mickey was. And he’d used the term ‘abuse survivor’. Ian wanted to kick himself. 

He held his hands up in front of him, palms out, trying to look calm and non threatening. 

‘Mickey, I’m sorry...,’ he started but Mickey interrupted him. 

‘Fuckin’ abuse survivor? Fuck do you think you know about my life, Gallagher?’ 

‘Mickey, please calm down. I’m sorry. I spoke to Paul...’

It was the wrong this to say. Mickey went completely rigid. His fingers were stark white, tightly clamped into hard fists. His expression flicked quickly from disbelief to anger and finally settled on a cold, frantic panic. 

‘You spoke to...? He told you...?’ Each question seemed to be punched out of him. ‘Doesn’t mean...doesn’t mean you know...’

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’

‘’Cause you fuckin’ don’t. Wasn’t abused. Never asked for any...don’t need...fuckin’ pity...’

‘I shouldn’t have said...’

‘No, you shouldn’t have.’ Mickey eyes were skittering around the office and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. His chest was rising and falling quickly. He looked like a coiled spring on the very edge of exploding. ‘You know fuck all about my life, nothing.’ He was panting a little now. Ian frowned as he watched the dark irises of Mickey’s eyes expand. ‘Fuckin’ abuse survivor? Fuck does that even mean? Know fuck all about it. Fuckin’ tell me...’ Every word is wrenched from him, breathless and gasped.

‘Mickey,’ Ian said, slowing getting to his feet. Mickey jerked away from him, mouth open slightly as his breath became shallower. ‘Mickey, you’re going to start hyperventilating if you don’t breath.’

‘Fuck off,’ Mickey managed to pant but there was panic in his face now. His chest was rising in sharp jerks and Ian could almost feel the tight band that would be constricting his breathing. Ian knew panic attacks. 

‘Mickey, take a breath.’

He was gasping, hands fluttering at his sides, face a mask of the hysteria that comes with not being able to draw breath. Ian took a step closer to him and tried to keep him voice level and calm, despite the mounting panic he was starting to feel. He pushed it aside and focused on Mickey’s scared face. 

‘Mickey, it’s going to be okay. You’re safe and this is going to stop soon I promise but I need you to breathe for me. Take a deep breath in for me.’ Ian could see him trying but he wasn’t getting enough air. He was looking at Ian with wide frightening eyes and Ian did the only thing he could think of. Moving swiftly behind Mickey he wrapped his arms tightly around him. With his chest against Mickey’s back he spoke gently and firmly directly into his ear. ‘Breathe with me, Mickey.’ Ian took a deep breath in and held it for four counts before letting it out. He did it again and he could feel Mickey trying to mimic him. He was solid in Ian’s arms, every muscle tense and locked. ‘You’re doing really well, Mickey. So well. Keep breathing with me.’ Ian took several more deep breaths, letting his chest expand into Mickey’s back, letting him feel each lungful of air before slowly exhaling. ‘Doing so well, Mickey. It’s scary but it’s not dangerous. It’s going to be okay. Keep breathing with me.’

Several deep breaths later Ian felt like he almost heard the click in Mickey’s chest and suddenly he took a huge, shuddering breath. Ian felt the convulsion of it travel through his body and Mickey went suddenly loose in his arms. Ian took a two more deep breaths, feeling Mickey breathe with him. 

‘That’s good, Mickey. That’s really good,’ he said and he half expected Mickey to shrug him off now the extreme of the panic was passing but he didn’t. If anything he slumped slightly back against Ian and Ian tightened his arms. ‘Keep breathing, okay. Let me know if there’s anything you need. You’re doing really well.’

They stood in silence for a few more breaths before Mickey shifted slightly in his arms. Ian got ready to let go but Mickey just mumbled something under his breath. Ian leaned his head forward, letting it drop over Mickey’s shoulder. 

‘Can you say that again?’

‘It’s really bright,’ Mickey said. He sounded sluggish, his voice thick and slow. Ian looked up at the harsh fluorescent lights that lit his office. The room only had a small window, high above his desk, so they were always on. He remembered reading something about light sensitivity and panic attacks. 

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going to let go of you for a second to switch the lights off. I’m not going anywhere unless you need me to let go of you completely.’ Carefully he took one arm away from Mickey, who definitely slumped against him this time, and reached behind him to click the light off. The room darkened to dull shadows, just enough light getting through the small window to see by, and Ian put his arm back round Mickey, loosening his hold slightly, giving him room if he needed it. 

‘Do you want to try sitting down?’ Ian asked after a few moments and he felt Mickey tense slightly. He glanced round to try and find the least threatening way to move them. ‘What about the floor? Want to try that?’

He felt Mickey give the smallest of shrugs. 

‘Okay, I’m going to let go of you and sit down. You sit wherever you feel most comfortable. Anywhere’s okay,’ Ian said and let his arms drop from around Mickey, who swayed slightly. Ian put his hand up to hold Mickey’s arms. ‘You okay? Here, come sit.’ Ian dropped to the floor, resting his back against the door. Mickey stayed standing, turning his head slightly to glance at Ian sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. His skin was paler than before, something Ian hadn’t thought was possible. The dark stain of the bruise around his eye stood out, stark and livid, in his ashen face. Ian tried to look calm and steady and smiled gently up at him. ‘It’s okay, Mickey. Sit wherever you want.’

After a moments hesitation Mickey let himself drop slowly to the floor next to Ian, his back against the wall, wedged between the filling cabinet and Ian’s left side. The way he moved to lower himself showed Ian that even if his ribs weren’t broken from the kicking he’d received they were badly bruised. Ian waited while he settled himself, feeling his body pressed along the entire side of him, before letting his head fall back. The room certainly seemed calmer from down there in the dim light and the quiet. He waited, letting Mickey adjust, wanting him to know Ian was willing to wait for him to feel ready. He’d pushed before, a stupid, rookie mistake, and he wasn’t about to do it again. He would wait.

*******************

Gallagher was quiet, pushed up next to him, not looking at him. Mickey was grateful. He felt like he’d run several miles, his head light and his limbs heavy. He rested his head back against the wall. 

He didn’t know what to say. Just the thought of talking about what had just happened made his chest feel tight again. He took a few quick breaths to make sure he still could. The tight band that had wound its way around him seemed to have left a memory behind and if he focused on it too much it seemed to tighten up again. He watched Gallagher’s fingers, splayed out on his knees in front of him and tried to remember to breathe. 

_Abuse survivor _. The words floated around him and he wanted to look away from them. Gallagher had said his files were incomplete, that his arrest record wasn’t in there. Mickey had thought maybe, if they never showed up, he’d have a chance in that room to not just be the gay bashed fag son of Terry Milkovich. It had hardly been a formed thought, not even something he was aware of until Ian had said _abuse survivor _and suddenly Terry was looming over him. And he’d spoken to Paul, which meant he knew. He knew what Mickey was. Paul had tried, at first before Mickey proved he wasn’t going to talk, to get Mickey to talk about his dad and his...his preferences.____

_____How do feel about your dad now, Mickey _? _How did you feel after the attack _? _Was it an isolated incident _?______ _ _ _ _

__________Paul knew it wasn’t an isolated incident. Mickey knew Paul had seen his hospital records, knew he’d seen the formal list of all Mickey’s identifying marks and scars; the cigarette burns on his left side, the long thin scar across his back from the time Terry’s belt had broken mid beating, the jagged scar on his leg from the stab wound he’d got from a meth head who’d lost it while Mickey was dealing and that he’d glued back together himself because it was easier that way. And the operation scars. So many scars from them putting him back together after Terry’s feet and fists had tried to take him apart, tried to rip out the dark, dirty secret that Mickey had tried to bury and then failed to hide._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________If Paul had seen that then Gallagher must have done as well._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey could feel himself tensing up. The dim light of the office was helping but his tired, wiped mind was circling the same issues and the silence was starting to press down on him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Say something,’ he said finally when he couldn’t stand it any more._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He could only imagine how he looked by the worried expression on Ian’s face. If he looked half as wrung out as he felt no wonder._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I don’t really know what to say,’ Ian said and Mickey could feel the vibrations of his voice through the arm that was pressed up against him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘It’s your fuckin’ job, ain’t it.’ Mickey felt Ian’s shoulders raise in a shrug._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I don’t think I’ve done very well at my job today,’ he said and Mickey looked at him. He was staring up at the ceiling, teeth worrying his bottom lip. He turned suddenly to look at Mickey and Mickey almost flinched away. ‘I don’t think I’m doing a very good job with you at all.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey frowned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘What’s wrong with me?’ Maybe he was so messed up that there was no helping him, maybe this was Gallagher telling him he wasn’t worth the effort of even an hour a week._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian rested his head back, still facing Mickey. Mickey could feel the lightest brush of his breath against his cheek. He felt the stutter of something else behind the panic._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Mickey?’ Ian said. Mickey looked at him. ‘Can I be honest with you?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘You been lying to me up until now?’ Mickey said and Ian shook his head, a small frown creasing between his eyebrows._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘No, I haven’t but I also haven’t been totally honest.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey shrugged._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Okay,’ Mickey said and watched as Ian’s gaze flicked over his face, finally settling back on his eyes as they watched each other._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I don’t know how to help you,’ Ian said and Mickey felt sick with it. He wanted to stand up, pretend to shrug it off and leave but Ian wasn’t done. ‘I don’t know how to help you because I can’t work out how to think of you like a patient. Like just a patient.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Everything in Mickey seemed to falter._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘What?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian was worrying his bottom lip again. Mickey wanted to reach out and pull it from between him teeth. He didn’t._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I know I don’t know you but I feel like I do. I know how it sounds, I do, but that’s how it is. You exploded into my office and I haven’t been able to work out what to think ever since. I went to see Paul...’ Ian flicked a concerned glance at Mickey, who stayed quiet, his heart beating a staccato in his chest. What the fuck was this? ‘I went to see Paul because I wanted to know about you. I wanted to know everything I could about you and an hour a week seemed too little time and I didn’t know if it was professional to spend our time together, when I’m supposed to be helping you, asking you questions that I only wanted to know the answers to because you fascinate me.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘What?’ Mickey felt slow and off balance but Ian was relentless. It seemed like now he’d started he didn’t know how to stop._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I went to see Paul and I’m sorry. Not about wanting to know more about you but about not letting you be the one to decide when to tell your story. I didn’t give you a choice and I’m sorry and I understand why that would make you angry. I just wanted to know you and after I spoke to him I wanted to help you and, yes, part of it was being a therapist but part of if was because listening to Paul explain about what led to your arrest hurt me and that shouldn’t happen with just a patient, not how much it effected me. What happened to you was so wrong for so many reasons, it should never have happened to anyone, but for it to specifically happen to you made me so angry it physically hurt.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Really?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian looked directly at him and nodded._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Really. I threw up behind a dumpster.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey didn’t know what to say. Ian’s eyes were wide and sincere and he was so close to Mickey and Mickey didn’t know what any of it meant._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘What are you saying, Gallagher?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian huffed out a breath and Mickey felt it on his face._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I’m saying...’ Ian seemed to be trying to work it out as he went, stumbling a little and tapping his head lightly against the wall, once then again. ‘I’m saying I prefer it when you call me Ian and when you do it makes me feel...pleased and happy. I’m saying I haven’t stopped thinking about you since our first meeting and it’s fucking me up. I’m saying that I don’t know what to do about it and I want to know you but I don’t even know what that means because there’s all these things that I don’t know how to get past, like...’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Like the fact I’m in prison?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian closed his eyes and Mickey watched his face. He really was something to look at and Mickey was at a loss to understand how this was happening. He’d felt whatever spark that had jumped between them, that low heat, but Ian’s face was open and honest and wanting and it was all directed at Mickey and it was something more than just the mindless want Mickey had known in the past, the want he’d barely allowed himself to feel then. Ian tapped his head against the wall again and kept his eyes closed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Honestly, you being in prison is not even top three of things I’m worried about.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Don’t get me wrong it’s up there but there’s stuff about me that I bring to this mess and I don’t even know if you’re...if you’re...I mean, I wasn’t even sure if you were...’ He seemed hesitant to say ‘gay’ as if just the word might trigger another panic attack in Mickey. Mickey’s not sure it won’t. ‘And even if you were, what am I so full of myself to think that means you also feel whatever I’m talking about? I mean, I don’t even know because we’ve barely talked but I want to but I don’t know if I can cross that line as a therapist even if I really want to, even if you were even near the same page, and...’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Jesus, Gallagher. Take a breath,’ Mickey said and Ian froze mid sentence. He blinked and then suddenly he started to laugh. Mickey watched as the goofiest, lopsided smile split Ian’s face as he let out a bright bark of laughter. Mickey pulled back from him slightly, eyebrows raised. Ian shook his head and put his face in his hands, still grinning._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Oh god, I am so sorry. This has been the worst session. I basically cornered you into a panic attack and then, rather than try and help you with that, I sit on the floor and tell you that I like you like I’m some thirteen year old girl with a crush. I am so sorry.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey’s heart jumped in his chest._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘You like me?’ he said and Ian took his hands away from his face, not smiling but looking puzzled and amused._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Yeah, what did you think all that was?’ Ian waved his hands as if to take in everything he’d just said._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I don’t know. It was a fuckin’ lot.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian bit his lip again and nodded, slow and considered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘It was a lot. You’re right. Sorry.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Stop fuckin’ apologising,’ Mickey bit out._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Sorry.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey scowled and Ian huffed out a laugh._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘God, what a mess,’ Ian said, knocking his head back into the door, closing his eyes again and stretching out his legs. ‘I’m sorry, Mickey.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey stared at him, taking in the defined cut of his cheekbones and the determined jut of his chin. Ian Gallagher looked like someone had made him on purpose. It was like they’d take his pale skin and matched it with the shock of his red hair and his green eyes and made sure everything was symmetrical to produce a face that fit together._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey thumbed his bottom lip. He felt confused and tired. His eye and his ribs hurt and his chest felt tight. He felt nervous and jumpy and unbelievably, underneath it all, excited. The part of him that imagined his life beyond prison, the part still knew how to hope and want, keened with the idea that Ian liked him, even as the part of his brain that spoke in Terry’s voice told him it was faggy bullshit and that Ian couldn’t be serious. He tried to ignore Terry’s booming roar and bit his bottom lip._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Look,’ he said and his voice sounded gruff and annoyed even to him. Ian opened his eyes and looked at him, wary. ‘I don’t fuckin’ know about any of this shit.’ Ian opened his mouth but Mickey shut his head. ‘Just...just shut up a minute.’ Ian closed his mouth and nodded. ‘I don’t know what to fuckin’ say to all that stuff you just said.’ Terry was yelling in his head now. Mickey forced himself to take a breath. ‘But you want to talk to me? That something you’re saying? Outside of this?’ Mickey gestured to the room and Ian nodded. ‘Right, so I could, I don’t know, call you or whatever. If you wanted.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian’s eyes were wide and Mickey didn’t know where to look. His heart was racing and his palms were sweating. He felt like he’d admitted to more than just phone privileges. Ian wasn’t saying anything, just staring at Mickey, and it was making him fidgety. He chewed the nail on his thumb._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘That maybe something you’d be into?’ he asked eventually and Ian slowly nodded. Mickey felt something release in his chest._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Yeah, Mickey. That’s something I’d be into. Do you...do you want my number?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey almost laughed. It was such a ridiculous question sitting on the floor of Ian’s office in the prison Mickey still had a year to go in, as if they were in club and they were just normal people without any of this shit. Except Mickey would never have been in that club and if Ian had offered his number Mickey would have punched him hard enough to knock any idea like that out of his head. But here? Locked up and as far from free as Mickey could get? Did Mickey want Ian’s number? He really, really did._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Yeah,’ Mickey said simply and Ian scrambled to his feet next to him. Mickey got up more slowly. His body ached and he still had two hours in the laundry to do. He watched Ian scribbled down his number and raised his eyebrows._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Can’t take that back into lock up, man,’ he said and Ian looked back at him, brow furrowed in confusion. ‘I get patted down when I leave here,’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘You do?’ Ian said and Mickey nodded. ‘I never knew that.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Why would you?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian shrugged._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘So, what do we do? Can you memorise it?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey huffed a laugh and Ian grinned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Man, it’s not gunna take you long to realise that I’m not as smart as you seem to think I am. Write it on me.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian looked as if he’d been about to argue over Mickey being smart but Mickey’s request seemed to stop him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘What?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Your number. You’ll have to write it on me. I can write it down when I get back to my bunk.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey reached back and clicked on the light before lifting the hem of his top, just enough to reveal a line of pale stomach. Ian’s eyes snapped to it, his mouth slightly open, and Mickey raised his eyebrows._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘You alright there, Gallagher?’ he said and Ian looked up at him. Mickey raised on eyebrow, a challenge, and Ian grinned, something just the right side of dirty in his expression. He grabbed a black marker from the pot on his desk and dropped into the chair in front of Mickey. He put out his own hand to hold Mickey’s top away from the skin and uncapped the pen with his teeth. Mickey felt the breath rush out of him when Ian looked up at him, smirking around the pen top in his mouth. He could feel himself getting hard, his crotch directly in front of Ian’s face, and he felt a dull blush of heat work up from his neck._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The pen was smooth on his skin and Ian’s breath was warm as he leaned in to write his number. Mickey tried to stay still, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore Ian and the feelings he was getting out of Mickey. He almost jumped a foot in the air when Ian leaned forward and blew softly on the numbers to dry the ink. Mickey nearly swayed as all the blood seemed to rush south. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ian’s breath was hot and wet and Mickey bit the inside of his cheek hard._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian capped the pen and grinned up at him, something nervous just beyond the cocky smile._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘So, you’ll call?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey dropped the edge of his top and nodded._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Fuckin’ said I would, didn’t I?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian smiled more widely and Mickey rolled his eyes. He went to sit down but Ian stopped him with a gentle touch to the hem of his top._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Your ribs?’ he said and there was concern in his voice. Mickey sighed but reached down and lifted the material high enough that the dark purple stain across his stomach was visible. Ian sucked in a breath and his fingers fluttered in his lap as if he wanted to reach out and soothe the damaged skin. ‘You’re sure they’re not broken?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey nodded and let the top drop back down. He lowered himself into the chair and watched as Ian replaced the pen. He couldn’t pin down how he felt but as the C.O knocked on the door moments later and Ian shifted into professional mode Mickey could feel the ghost of his breath on his stomach and the glide of the pen that had inked Ian’s number onto his skin. A number that meant they could talk. Because Ian wanted to get to know him. Because Ian liked him and it was dumb as shit._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ian liked him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Mickey’s head might never stop spinning._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - extended description of a panic attack, anxiety and difficulty breathing
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is later than I hoped. I’m really sorry. It’s taught me not to throw around false promises of days I’ll get done. But I will get better at regular updates or at least I will try incredibly hard to do so. Again, thank you so much if you’re reading this fic. It’s both wonderful and mad and I appreciate it so much


	12. Say It Again

Mickey fidgeted with the scrap of paper, staring up at the ceiling above him, and tried to tune out the sounds of men sleeping around him. His bed was in the middle of a row of ten metal bunks, one of thirty beds in the large, open room. Didn’t matter how late it got there was still the noise of men moving, snoring, farting and, though Mickey tried to ignore it, crying and whimpering. Below him he could hear sniffing and the wet sound of someone rubbing their hand under their nose.

Mickey focused on the long crack that spread out from the tube light above him, twisting across the broken ceiling tiles, and tried not to listen. The man below him shifted and the bunk moved with each movement. The crying didn’t stop. 

‘For fucks sake,’ Mickey muttered and leaned over the edge of the bunk. In the gloom of the orange light through the window he could see the man curled in on himself in the bed below. ‘Ey, fuckin’ enough with the crying, man.’

Two large, wet eyes blinked up at him. The guy was older than Mickey, his face lined and battered with premature age. He dragged his hand under his nose again and sniffed. 

‘Sorry,’ he said and Mickey rolled his eyes. 

‘You new?’ Mickey asked and the guy nodded. 

‘Transfered.’

‘Well, lucky you. It ain’t so bad in here. Keep your head down, you’ll be fine.’  
The guy nodded again and opened his mouth to speak. 

‘Shut the fuck up, Milkovich,’ someone yelled from a few beds over and the guy snapped his mouth shut. Mickey rolled his eyes and turned on his bunk. 

‘Mind your fucking business and go back to sleep,’ he shouted back. The guard at the end of the room, feet propped on a chair and magazine open in his lap, glanced up. 

‘Quiet, inmates,’ he said, bored, and Mickey bit back a retort. He leaned over the bunk again. 

‘Go the fuck to sleep. It’ll be easier in the morning.’ The guy nodded. ‘And stop fuckin’ crying.’ He watched him lay back and close his eyes and Mickey let himself fall back onto his own thin pillow. He was getting soft in his old age. Fuckin’ crying in prison was for fresh meat and pussies. Mickey hadn’t cried, he’d made sure of it. Not the first time he went to juvie and not when they locked him up here. Years of conditioning had taught him how to flatten his feelings. 

He opened the paper and stared at the numbers. Fuckin’ Gallagher. He didn’t know how to flatten these feelings. He felt like some bitch ass girl, lying in bed tracing fuckin’ numbers in the dark because some boy had given him his phone number. It was almost enough to make him scrunch the number up and pretend, try and pretend, that he wasn’t already gone on some guy who was making him feel…he didn’t even know. When Ian had held his wrist during their Monday session, hand soft and careful, Mickey had nearly cried. What was he supposed to do with that? How was he supposed to fit that into his head? And now he had his number and he could ring him and they could talk? Fuck. He’d made it to the row of phones twice now and walked away without picking it up.

Mickey folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket. There was silence from the bunk below. Carefully he wrapped his arms around himself and let his eyes drift closed, let his mind drift back to the feel of Ian’s arms around him, solid and secure, holding him as if it was nothing, as if Mickey had earned the right to be held that tightly. 

***********************

‘You’re a Milkovich.’

It wasn’t a question and Mickey glanced over at the man who had been in the bunk below him, calculating the height of him, the strength and working out the best way to get the better of him if it came to a fight. No good came from someone recognising his name. He turned from making his bed, crossed his arms and stared. The other man blinked. He was tall and too thin, track marks visible on his forearms, Mickey noted, but old ones. Never underestimate an addict. That was a Terry rule. They might look tweaked out but that’s how you lose a fuckin’ eye. Mickey raised an eyebrow and waited. 

‘Think I knew your brother,’ the guy said. ‘Over in Illinois State.’ He inclined his head to outside the prison walls. Mickey relaxed slightly. Brother might be okay, better than dad. 

‘Which one?’ Mickey asked. 

‘Colin.’

Colin was okay. Colin was tweaked out of his own head often enough that no one was going to pay attention to Colin. Mickey gave a nod and turned back to his bunk. 

‘You look like him.’

‘Fuck off,’ Mickey huffed with a laugh and the guy smiled. He was missing a few teeth. ‘What’s he in for?’

The guy shrugged. 

‘Drugs or something. Maybe assault.’

Mickey nodded. Sounded about right. He tucked in the final corner of the sheet and turned back. 

‘What you in for?’ Mickey asked and the guy shrugged again. 

‘Drugs or something. Maybe assault.’

Mickey smirked. 

‘Whatever, man.’ 

He moved to walk past, to join the flow of other men heading to breakfast, when the guy snapped an arm out and grabbed Mickey’s wrist. Every muscle in Mickey’s body went taut. He turned his head slowly and made deliberate eye contact. 

‘You’re gunna want to take your hand off me,’ he said quietly but the guy shook his head, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. 

‘You’re the fairy, right?’ he said and Mickey’s vision tunnelled. He moved so quickly the guy didn’t know what was happening until Mickey was pushing him up against the opposite bunk, forearm hard against his throat. 

‘The fuck you say to me?’

The guards at the doorway hadn’t noticed and Mickey pressed a little harder. The guy bared his teeth in a grin. His breath stank but Mickey didn’t move away. 

‘You’re the fairy. Colin told me. FUCK-U-UP,’ he said and glanced at Mickey’s knuckles. ‘Daddy nearly fuckin’ killed your faggot ass.’

Mickey could feel the pounding of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears. The guards were looking at them now, moving against the flow of people leaving the dorm. 

‘Milkovich,’ one of them called and Mickey flicked his eyes over to them. He had maybe a minute. 

‘You better watch what you’re fuckin’ sayin’,’ he growled, pushing a little harder. The guy’s leg twitched. 

‘I want some ice,’ the guy said, his own eyes flying to the guards who were two beds away. Mickey felt his lip rise in a sneer but before he could respond two heavy hands closed around his upper arms and pulled him away. 

‘Enough, Milkovich.’ It was Walsh, a guard Mickey actually didn’t mind. He let himself be pulled back. ‘The hell’s going on?’ 

Mickey shrugged. 

‘He bumped me,’ Mickey said and Walsh rolled his eyes. 

‘For fucks sake, Milkovich.’ He turned and waved a hand dismissively. ‘Move on, Murphy.’

Murphy grinned as Walsh turned back to Mickey. He tapped the scars on his forearms and raised his eyebrows before melting away towards the doors. Mickey scowled. Walsh’s hands were still holding him back, as if he was worried Mickey might lunge after Murphy. 

‘I’m fine,’ Mickey said and shrugged his shoulders. Walsh waited a minute before letting go. 

‘I thought you were done with this shit,’ Walsh said.

‘I am,’ Mickey said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Fucker’s new, just wanted to make sure he knew how things were.’ 

Walsh shook his head and moved to let Mickey pass him. 

‘Stay away from him, Milkovich. I don’t want to have to separate you again.’

Mickey gave a two fingered salute and saw Walsh smile as he made his way towards dining hall. He turned off just before he reached it, ducking into the showers, and made his way to a toilet stall. The half height door didn’t do much to cover him but he sat down on the toilet rim and let his head drop into his hands. 

Fuck. Fuckin’ Colin. He hadn’t been there when his dad had caught him behind the bar, which meant fuckin’ Iggy had told him. Mickey could remember Iggy’s face hovering over him, lip chewed raw as he gave the ambulance directions to where Mickey was lying bleeding on the pavement. Iggy had dragged his dad off, shouted that he should run ‘cause someone had called the cops. It was all one long, painful blur before they’d shot him full of something good and numbing before loading him onto the ambulance and then nothing for days. Blissful, peaceful darkness. 

Mickey scrubbed his hands over his head and through his hair. Okay, so Colin has shot his mouth off. Murphy was obviously some tweaked out little bitch, maybe no one would listen. Mickey chewed the inside of his cheek. He knew that wasn’t the case, knew there were enough people wanting a little bit of Milkovich blood, wanted to drag him down a bit. So the guy wanted ice, Mickey could get ice. He just needed to do it without getting caught. Not too hard. Easier to get drugs than soap. Get him some ice, get him to shut the fuck up.

Mickey thumbed his bottom lip. But for how long? Was he going to let some fuckin’ tripped out loser order him around? Hold this shit over his head? 

Mickey growled and got to his feet. Fuck. 

He pushed his hands into his pockets as he walked towards the dining room. His fingers closed around the slip of paper and he gripped it tightly. 

***********************

Ian’s phone rang just as they were sitting down to dinner. He glanced at the display, saw the withheld number and felt his heart leap to his throat. He got up from the table so quickly that he knocked the edge, making the glasses wobble. Fiona raised an eyebrow at him. 

‘Sorry, gotta take this.’ 

He was out the back door before anyone could say anything. The evening was warm and he answered the call as he dropped into a metal chair away from the house. The automated voice informed him that he had a collect call from an inmate at Cook County Department of Corrections. Did he accept the charges? He quickly pressed to confirm that he did and then someone was breathing down the line. 

‘Mickey?’ 

There was a noise like someone clicking their tongue in irritation. Ian grinned.

‘Who you expecting? Give your number out to fuckin’ everyone?’ Mickey’s voice was loud and gruff and so present in Ian’s ear that he laughed and let his head fall back against the chair. 

‘You actually called,’ Ian said, feeling almost giddy with the idea of it. He heard Mickey’s huff of breath down the line. 

‘You just gunna state the fuckin’ obvious all night?’

Ian grinned more widely and took a breath.

‘Sorry, you just caught me off guard. I was really hoping you’d call for the last two days. I was thinking you might not.’

‘Yeah well, too fuckin’ eager,’ Mickey muttered and Ian beamed.

‘No such thing as too eager, Mickey.’

There was quiet down the line, just the sound of Mickey’s breathing and the background noise of men’s voices and shouts. 

‘You wanted to fuckin’ talk, man, and now you’re not saying anything,’ Mickey said after a few moments and Ian tried to picture him, face scowling but with that nervous twitch Ian was starting to recognise as insecurity. He settled further back in the chair and stared up at the darkening sky. 

‘I honestly don’t know what to say. I was so focused on if you’d call I didn’t even get this far.’

‘Fuckin’ lame,’ Mickey muttered but there was no heat to his words. Ian’s face hurt from smiling.

‘What did you do today?’

Ian could hear the phone being shifted around. 

‘It’s prison. Did the same shit I always do.’ 

‘In the laundry?’

‘You wanna talk about me folding fuckin’ clothes?’ 

Ian laughed.

‘I don’t know, Mick. I just want to talk.’

There was a long stretch of silence. Ian pulled the phone away to check they hadn’t been disconnected. 

‘Mickey? You still there?’

‘No one calls me Mick.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Ian had barely realised he’d been doing it. 'You want me not to?’

‘Nah, I don’t…I mean, it’s fine. My sister used to…’ Mickey trailed off. ‘It’s just been a while.’ 

‘She visit you a lot?’

A huff of almost laughter. 

‘No one fuckin’ visits me.’

Ian sat up in his chair. 

‘Wait, no one?’

‘Yeah, I mean, it’s not that weird. Loadsa guys don’t have anyone come visit them. It’s not a big deal.’ 

Ian was chewing the inside of his cheek.

‘It’s really not a big deal,’ Mickey said again, correctly interpreting Ian’s silence. 

‘I want you to call. A lot,’ Ian said and he knew he sounded angry.

Mickey huffed another near laugh. 

‘I told you, it’s not…’

Ian cut across him. 

‘Mickey, I’m serious. I want you to call me as often as you want to. More often. As often as I want you to.’

There was a pause. Ian chewed his lip and waited.

‘Yeah, okay. If you want.’ 

Ian gripped the phone hard. 

‘Yeah, I want. So call.’ 

‘I don’t…’ Mickey hesitated. ‘I don’t have much credit on my phone account.’ 

‘I’ll put some on,’ Ian said quickly. 

‘No. No, that’s not why I’m telling you. Just want you to know if I don’t call. It’s probably ‘cause of that.’

‘Mickey, I’ll put money in the account.’

‘Don’t gotta…’

‘Mickey,’ Ian practically growled down the phone. ‘Shut up and let me figure out a way so we can fucking talk to each other.’

He felt like he could hear Mickey chewing his lip down the phone. 

‘Yeah, alright,’ he said eventually. ‘Probably gunna get cut off soon. You only get a bit free every week.’

‘I’m glad you had some left to be able to call tonight.’

Mickey did actually laugh then, a short bitter bite of laughter. 

‘I ain’t got no one else to call.’

Ian wanted to crawl down the phone line. He took a deep breath and slackened his grip on the phone.

‘Well now you do, so you better call.’ 

An ambulance sped past on the street, blue lights dancing across the backyard, siren wailing. 

‘You outside?’ Mickey asked. 

‘Yeah, in the backyard.’

‘You got a yard?’

‘My family do. My apartment doesn’t. I’m at my family’s house for dinner. We’re eating some casserole thing my sister brought back from the diner she works at.’

There was a pause. The phone being shuffled again. 

‘When I get out…’ Mickey started and Ian stifled a sharp intake of breath. ‘When I get out there’s a diner that does the best fuckin’ burgers. I want to eat, like, fuckin’ fifty of them.’

‘You’ll throw up.’ Ian was smiling down the phone. 

‘Nah. I’ve been dreaming about those burgers.’ 

Ian hesitated and then he went for it. He went for it because Mickey’s voice was warm in his ear and the night was balmy and he’d actually called Ian and Ian wanted it so, so badly. 

‘Okay,’ he said, voice dropping a little. ‘When you get out we’ll go eat burgers.’ 

The silence was thick and Ian swallowed hard, waiting. 

‘Fuck,’ Mickey said finally, voice as low as Ian’s.

‘Mick? Yeah?’ Ian asked. 

‘Yeah,’ Mickey breathed and then there were three solid beeps down the line. 

‘Thirty second warning,’ Mickey said and Ian gripped his cellphone again, pushing it against his ear. 

‘I’ll put money in the account tonight. Call me, Mickey. Yeah?’ 

There was the shuffle of the phone again, a moment when Ian thought he’d lost him and then Mickey’s voice, clear and sure down the line. 

‘Speak to you tomorrow.’

And then he was gone. Ian dropped his arm down to his side and leaned his head back against the chair. He let the sound of the night wash over him, the gentle brush of the warm breeze smelling like some kind of flower that had managed to force its way into being out of the rough South Side soil. Mickey had called him. Mickey was going to call him again. He breathed in deeply and let himself feel the expanding bubble in his chest that felt bigger than he knew what to do with. It felt like happiness mixed with potential. It felt like nothing he’d felt before. 

It felt good.


	13. Just Keep Saying Things

‘Two nights in a row, Milkovich?’ Brooks was leaning against the walls by the phones, one eyebrow raised as Mickey waited in line for his turn. ‘Who are you suddenly so interested in talking to?’

Mickey shrugged, hand shoved into his pockets. He’d wondered if his sudden use of the phones would be noticed. Years of never calling anyone and suddenly he’s patiently lining up with the rest of them? It was just his luck that Brooks was on shift to point it out. 

‘Not doing anything you shouldn’t be are you, Milkovich?’ Brooks asked, straightening slightly. 

Mickey bit back a retort and shook his head. 

‘Nah. Just some guy I used to know on the outside,’ Mickey said, making sure to keep looking at Brooks directly. He knew the calls were recorded, knew he was putting Gallagher’s job on the line, but Gallagher had to know that as well right? They said it in the fuckin’ automated message before he accepted the call. They’d only check if he gave them a reason to be suspicious. The thought of it was making Mickey feel twitchy. Mickey wanted to talk to Ian but on top of Murphy, who had spent most of dinner staring at Mickey from across the room, Mickey was feeling the familiar pull to go back into hiding, to shut everything down and keep himself in check. It was tugging against the bubble of pleasure and excitement he got from the thought of speaking to Ian, of hearing his voice even down a phone line that only served to remind Mickey of just how much distance there was between them. 

‘Good buddy of yours? This guy on the outside?’ Brooks asked and Mickey shook his head. 

‘Just said I should call when it got closer to my time being up. Shrink said I need to start planning all that shit.’ Mickey tried to give a nonchalant shrug, tried to look bored, tried to ignore the feel of other men breathing down his neck in the line. He clenched his fists in his pockets. 

‘Planning on going straight on the outside?’ Brooks snorted. ‘You’ll be back in before your parole’s even half up, I’d put money on it.’

Mickey planted his feet and shrugged again. He felt someone brush against his shoulder, too close, and just as he was about to step out the line, get away to the relative privacy of his bunk, a guy on the phone finished his call and Mickey was next. He fidgeted for a minute. Brooks was watching him. 

‘Time to call your buddy, Milkovich,’ he said. ‘Don’t keep him waiting.’

Mickey nearly walked away but Brooks’ eyes, small and cold in his wide face, were sneering at him and he stepped forward, snatching up the phone and punching in the numbers from the scrap of paper that was torn and scrunched up from his constant handling.

He deliberately turned his back on Brooks and listened to the ringing. 

**********************************

Ian was tired. He stared down at the paper in front of him, tried to make sense of the last paragraph he’d written. He’d had an early check in appointment with his therapist to make sure he was remaining level and then a day of classes that had left his head too full to make space for the paper he was supposed to be writing on the effects of CBT on people with acrophobia. Ian stretched his arms above his head and reached to flick the textbook over, searching for some kind inspiration, when he felt his phone buzz in the pocket. He jumped to fish it out, beaming when he saw the number and clicked to answer. He half listened to the automated voice and clicked all the right buttons until they were connected. 

‘Hey.’ It was amazing how breathy he sounded in just one word. He felt like he’d run several miles, he could actually feel his heart beating faster, and all he’d done was answer the phone. He could hear Mickey breathing down the line and the sound of other men in the background. 

‘Hey man, how’s it going?’ 

Ian frowned. Mickey sounded strangely brusque, voice a little too loud, a little too deliberate. The night before he’d sounded more relaxed, more like the Mickey Ian was coming to know.

‘It’s...good. Everything okay with you?’ he asked, trying to keep him voice carefully light.

‘Yeah, man. Just calling about that job. You said I should call.’

‘Erm...’ Ian tried to catch up. ‘Yeah, I did say to call. Can you talk right now?’ Something was obviously wrong, Mickey couldn’t talk. So why had he called? Ian bit his lip. Was he in trouble? 

‘Now not good for you?’ Mickey asked. There was sudden yell in the background and Ian sat up straight in his chair. ‘Hold on.’

Ian could hear noises, shouts and curses muffled as if the handset was being held against Mickey’s body. 

‘Mick?’ Ian said, alarm buzzing under his skin. ‘Mickey?’ 

There were several moments of confused noise and then Mickey was breathing down the line again. 

‘Hey, sorry about that.’ Mickey’s voice was normal again, gruff and quiet down the line, and Ian ran a hand through his hair, huffing an irritated breath into the phone. ‘You okay?’

‘What happened? Are you okay? You sounded...what happened? Who was yelling?’

He heard Mickey’s huff of a laugh and gripped the phone tighter. 

‘C.O. was hovering. He think it’s weird I’m using the phone again. Didn’t want to say too much. Get you in trouble or whatever. Said you were some guy I knew who might have a line on a job once I’m out.’

Ian ran his hand through his hair again and closed his eyes. He’d thought, briefly and not seriously enough it seemed, about the impact of the phone calls on him, on his job. He didn’t know if what they were doing, talking on the phone, was allowed and he didn’t know how to ask without drawing suspicion. He thought it probably wasn’t but he’d been willing to ignore it for a bit more time talking to Mickey. It hadn’t occurred to him that Mickey would have to be careful on his end. He was being reckless with Mickey’s safely. 

‘Sorry. I didn’t think. Do you...do you want to hang up? We can talk tomorrow in session.’ Ian didn’t want that but he had to stop thinking with the part of his brain that seemed to fire messily where Mickey was involved. 

There was a pause on the line and Ian bit his lip, waiting. 

‘Nah, man.’ Mickey said. It sounded like the phone was pushed close to his mouth. ‘I guess...I mean, it’s worth it, right?’

Ian almost groaned down the line. He licked his lips and nodded, even though there was no one there to see him. 

‘Yeah. Yeah, Mick. It’s worth it.’

There was another pause and Ian listened to him breathing, trying to calm his racing heart. 

‘So, what was the shouting?’

‘Some guys going at it. C.O.’s hauling ‘em off to solitary so I can talk for a bit.’

‘Was it Brooks?’ Ian asked. He’d come to hate even the thought of the man. 

‘Yeah. Not a big deal. Just gotta watch my back.’ Mickey huffed down the phone. ‘It’s prison so I should probably be doing that anyway.’ There was an edge to his voice that Ian didn’t like. 

‘Someone giving you trouble?’ Ian asked and there were a few more beats of silence than he was comfortable with. ‘Mickey?’

‘Nothing major. Can we maybe...can we not talk about it right now?’

Ian picked up his pen and worried at his with his free hand. 

‘Yeah, yeah we can do that. Just tell me you’re not in danger.’

‘Not in danger. Just don’t want to get into it tonight.’

‘Okay,’ Ian said and made a quick note on the corner of notebook to remind him, even though he didn’t think he’d ever forget anything Mickey told him. 

‘So, what you doing?’ Mickey asked and Ian smiled. 

‘Losing my mind over school,’ Ian said. ‘College day today.’

‘You’re not here on a Thursday?’ Mickey asked. 

‘In the prison? No, Wednesday and Thursday I’m in college.’

‘Huh,’ Mickey said and Ian felt himself smirking. 

‘Why?’ 

‘No reason,’ Mickey said too quickly and Ian grinned. 

‘Come on, Mick. This is a safe space.’

Mickey laughed and Ian got out of his chair and dropped onto the sofa. He let his head rest back and smiled down the phone. 

‘Prison’s not a safe space, man,’ Mickey said. 

‘This phone call is. Any time we talk it is,’ Ian said. ‘So, why so curious about my schedule?’

There was a pause and Ian closed his eyes, trying to imagine Mickey’s frown, the rub of his thumb over his mouth, the slightly raised shoulders.

‘I don’t fuckin’ know, man. I guess I was just...fuckin’...picturing you in your office or whatever.’

Everything inside Ian jumped. He tried to tamp down the knee jerk reaction to tell Mickey how often he pictured him, how often he found his mind wandering to think about where Mickey might be, what he might be doing, what he was wearing or, usually when Ian was mid shower, what he might not be wearing. Ian didn’t want to freak him out too much. 

‘Well,’ he said, carefully. ‘On a Wednesday and Thursday you can picture me sitting in class confused as fuck and heavily caffeinated.’

‘You got a stupid fuckin’ backpack?’ 

‘I’ll have you know my backpack is the height of fashion.’

Mickey huffed a laugh. 

‘Fuckin’ gay man.’

Ian laughed, throwing his feet up on the coffee table he and Carl had built from a couple of pallets and liberated blocks from a nearby construction site. 

‘Yeah, Mick. Pretty damn gay.’ 

He listened to Mickey shuffle the phone around, waited for him to say something. He wondered if he’d scared him off with too overt a reference to being gay. When he didn’t fill the silence Ian smiled and decided to help him out. 

‘Tell me about your tattoos,’ he said. 

‘You noticed them?’

Ian rolled his eyes. 

‘Mickey, you’ve got ‘fuck you up’ tattooed across your knuckles. Of course I noticed them.’ Not only had Ian noticed them, he’d thought about those fingers more often than he liked to admit. They were strong and solid and the black of the ink stood out so prominently on Mickey’s skin. Mickey’s skin that Ian had also spent a lot of time thinking about, skin like milk. Ian bit his lip as Mickey laughed down the line. 

‘They’re dumb,’ he said and Ian shook his head. 

‘They’re hot,’ Ian said before he could stop himself. 

There was beat of silence and the shuffle of the phone. 

‘Yeah?’ Mickey’s voice was close and deep and Ian felt the heat of it shoot through him. 

‘Yeah. Definitely hot.’ Ian took a breath, willed his body to calm down. ‘You get them done inside?’ 

‘Nah, cousin did ‘em when I was fifteen. We...we all had ‘em. Bit of a Milkovich calling card.’

Ian knew from Paul that there was at least one brother and Mickey had mentioned a sister. His voice had tightened slightly and Ian could sense his family was difficult ground. 

‘Terror of the neighbourhood?’ 

Mickey huffed. 

‘Better fuckin’ believe it. Don’t fuck with a Milkovich, man. We’ll fuck you up.’

Ian grinned. What he wouldn’t give to have known him then; this beautiful, complicated man would have been impossible to ignore as a teenager and Ian wouldn’t have stood a chance. He could picture himself following Mickey around like a lovesick puppy, drawn to everything broken, all the rage and passion he felt bubbling under Mickey’s careful persona. 

‘Reckon we’d have been friends?’ Ian asked.

‘Nah, man,’ Mickey said and Ian tried to ignore the slight twinge at that. ‘Fuckin’ carrot top motherfucker? Wouldn’t have gone well. Well, not for you.’

Ian laughed. 

‘Don’t be so sure,’ Ian said. ‘I was in the ROTC. Reckon I could have kicked your ass.’ 

‘Fuck’s an ROTC?’

‘Army club. I wanted to be an officer.’ 

‘Army club?’ Mickey’s voice gave away the gleeful pleasure he was getting from the image. ‘You’re a fuckin’ dork, man.’

Ian grinned. Mickey sounded light and it made something in Ian’s chest swell. 

‘What? No, I’m not.’

‘You are. Fuckin’ army club college boy with a backpack.’ Mickey was snickering down the line. ‘Man, it’s a good job I didn’t know you in high school, I’d have eaten you for breakfast.’

Ian grinned, even as the blush of embarrassment flared across his cheek. 

‘Whatever, man. I had game in high school. I did just fine.’

There was a silence on the phone and then Mickey snorted a soft laugh. 

‘Yeah, I’ll bet you did.’ 

Ian’s blush got hotter and he was suddenly glad they were on the phone. 

‘I mean, not that I would have minded you eating me for breakfast,’ he said, cautiously, pleased when Mickey just huffed another laugh. 

‘Fuckin’ shut up, man. Lifetime ago.’ 

‘Yeah, you’re what? Twenty five now? Ancient.’ Ian grinned. ‘Need to start thinking about oxygen tanks and home help.’

‘Fuck off, man. Hold on. C.O.’s back.’ 

Ian listened to the sound of the phone being moved around. 

‘Time’s up, Milkovich,’ Ian heard Brooks say and then Mickey asking for a second. ‘Nope. Say goodbye to your best buddy. Time to hang up.’ Ian rolled his eyes. 

‘Gotta go,’ Mickey said and Ian opened his mouth to reply but there was nothing but silence. He glanced down at his screen to see that the call had cut off. He blinked at it for a second before grinding his teeth. He didn’t think Mickey had hung up on him, he thought Brooks had taken it upon himself to cut Mickey’s call. Ian glared down at his phone for a minute before throwing it aside. He let his head loll to the side, looking at the papers and books scattered over the small table. He chewed his bottom lip for a minute before experimentally brushing his hand across his crotch, letting his eyes drop out of focus as he pictured Mickey’s hands, his fingers, the plump jut of his bottom lip. He felt himself get hard under his palm. 

Without a second look at his paper, he heaved himself to his feet and moved towards the small bathroom, ducking into the bedroom to grab the bottle of lube from his bedside table. College could absolutely wait, he thought, as he flicked on the shower and stripped off his shirt. 

************************* 

Ian’s door was open when Mickey sat down on the bench in the corridor. He watched Walsh stick his head in, heard Ian’s confirmation that he could come straight in and actively tried to stop his knee bouncing. Brooks had hung up on Ian last night, staring straight at Mickey as he pushed the lever to end the call. Mickey had almost lashed out. It had only been the thought of seeing Ian the next day that has stopped him, allowed him to drop the handset back into place and walk away, hands curled into fists, nails digging into skin. What if Ian thought he’d hung up on him? It had been going well, talking on the phone. Ian was easy to talk to and Mickey couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed himself to almost smile that often. His knee was bouncing again. 

‘Alright, Milkovich?’ Walsh asked. Mickey jumped. He hadn’t noticed him approaching. Walsh frowned. 

‘Yeah,’ Mickey said, quickly. ‘Just hate this therapy shit.’

Walsh grinned and led him into the office. Ian’s face was slightly red and he was sorting files with laser focus, not looking up. 

‘Well, stick to it. We might make you a semi decent person to be around,’ Walsh said and Ian’s head flicked up. ‘You guys can work magic, right?’ Walsh asked and Ian gave a tight smile. 

‘We try our best,’ he said.

Mickey was struggling not to bite his lip. Ian looked annoyed. Mickey wanted Walsh to leave. 

‘Back in an hour. Work hard,’ Walsh said, clapping Mickey on the shoulder and grinning as he closed the door behind him. Mickey stayed standing, waiting for Ian to look at him. 

‘He seems friendly,’ Ian finally said to the files on his knee. Mickey frowned.

‘Walsh? Yeah, he’s alright.’

Ian gave a curt nod and Mickey fidgeted slightly. 

‘So...’ Mickey said, not sure where he was trying to go but wanting to fill the heavy silence. 

‘So,’ Ian said, snapping a folder closed and suddenly looking up at Mickey. ‘You hate this therapy shit?’

Mickey frowned. 

‘What?’

‘You just said, you hate this therapy shit. And last night you...I mean, I thought maybe it was Brooks but did you hang up on me?’

Mickey felt his mouth drop slightly open. Seriously? For fucks sake. He rolled his eyes and Ian scowled. 

‘Are you for real, Gallagher?’

Ian didn’t say anything and Mickey crossed his arms over his chest, frustration at the stupidity of it washing over him. He searched Ian’s stupidly pretty face and rolled his eyes again. Uncrossing his arms he reached backwards and clicked the light off. Ian’s frown intensified as Mickey dropped down onto the floor and raised his eyebrows. Ian just looked at him. 

‘For fucks sake, Gallagher. Get down here.’

Ian bit his bottom lip, hesitated for a moment before putting the files aside and squeezing into the space next to Mickey. Mickey waited as he positioned his ridiculously gangly limbs, relishing the heat of him pressed up close. Finally Ian went still and Mickey let him head fall back to rest against the door behind them. He took a breath. 

‘Brooks hung up the phone last night. Thought you might think it was me.’ Mickey glanced at Ian’s profile, watched him release some of the tension from his shoulders. ‘As for what I said to Walsh...come on, man. You want me to tell him my knee’s jerking like I’m coming down off half a bag of fuckin’ coke ‘cause I’m...’ Mickey paused. He felt rather than saw Ian turn his head and look at him. 

‘Cause you’re what?’ 

Mickey thumbed his bottom lip and shot a quick glance at Ian. 

‘Cause I want to see you,’ he said after a minute. The smile that split Ian’s face was blinding and Mickey rolled his eyes. He pushed against Ian with his shoulder. ‘Don’t have to look so fuckin’ pleased with yourself, man. Fuckin’ doubting me or whatever.’

Ian’s smile dimmed slightly. 

‘Yeah, that was shitty of me. Sorry.’ 

Mickey shrugged, making Ian’s shoulder move along with him. 

‘Whatever, man.’

‘No, not whatever, Mickey.’

Mickey rubbed his mouth again. 

‘I just,’ Mickey started. ‘I thought we were on the same fuckin’ page about this shit.’

Ian didn’t say anything and Mickey waited a few beats before turning to look at him. Ian was staring directly at him and Mickey felt his breath hitch in his throat. He glanced down quickly and watched Ian stretch a hand out. He watched as Ian’s long fingers gathered the fabric of Mickey’s trousers into a bunch and tug slightly. Mickey looked back up at him. 

‘I’m sorry, Mick,’ Ian said and his eyes were wide and serious. ‘Sometimes my brain...sometimes I get the wrong end of things. It’s my problem.’

Mickey frowned. 

‘It’s...’ Mickey was going to say it was fine but Ian tugged at his trousers again and shook his head slightly. 

‘I thought last night that it might have been Brooks hanging up. Thought it had been good talking.’

‘It was. It is.’

Ian smiled. 

‘So didn’t think you’d hung up. But then I heard you say about hating coming here and...I’ve got a lot of shit around people not wanting me around once they get to know me. Guess it was a bit of panic about that. I’m sorry.’

Mickey stared at him and Ian blinked, shrugging a little. 

‘Who the fuck wouldn’t want you around?’ Mickey said, without thinking. Ian gave a watery laugh and Mickey felt something twist inside him. He looked young and surprised and so stupidly beautiful that Mickey couldn’t look away. Ian’s eyes dropped to Mickey’s mouth and Mickey’s heart stuttered in his chest. He glanced away quickly. He could feel Ian’s warm breath on his cheek.

‘When I was younger,’ Ian said after a minute and Mickey chanced a glance back at him. He was staring forward, eyes on his desk, face carefully blank. ‘I did a lot of stupid shit. I was...I was out of control for a long time. But before that I was a bit of a mess.’ He ran a hand through his hair, huffing out a little sigh. ‘Classic middle child syndrome. Big family, only so much to go round. Needed to feel wanted. Made a lot of mistakes with a lot of guys. Older guys.’ 

Mickey tried to picture a younger Ian Gallagher, probably even more gangly and desperate for someone to see him, love him. He wanted to kill anyone who’d hurt him. 

‘I was a bit of a prick,’ Ian continued. ‘Selfish.’

‘Everyone’s selfish when they’re a kid,’ Mickey said and Ian flashed a resigned smile at him.

‘Yeah but I didn’t give a shit. Wanted what I wanted and made sure I got it. I don’t know. I mean, they liked me and I got what I wanted. But they liked me ‘cause I was pretty. But I was a mess. And no matter how pretty you are no one wants to deal with a mess when there’s an endless supply of pretty twinks out there.’

‘Ay.’ Mickey reached out with his foot and nudged Ian’s. ‘Fuck ‘em.’

Ian looked him, let his head rest back against the door and let his gaze flick over Mickey’s face. He smiled softly.

‘I thought maybe you’d realised that as well. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have overreacted. I really do know how to derail our hour together.’

Mickey thumbed his lip and considered the man in front of him. Mickey shook his head slowly. 

‘You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Gallagher.’

Ian’s laugh was surprised and Mickey bit his lip. Ian squared his shoulders slightly and seemed to be pulling himself together, ready to laugh at himself and move them on. Mickey acted before he could stop himself and suddenly his hand was on Ian’s knee. Ian froze, eyes on Mickey’s fingers curled around his kneecap. Mickey watched him swallow before looking back at Mickey. Mickey took a breath. 

‘Seriously, fuck ‘em. You’re....’ Mickey paused. ‘You’re not just some fuckin’ twink, man. You’re...you’re...’ Mickey was looking everywhere but at Ian. He felt hot and awkward. He didn’t know the world for what Ian was. He took another breath. ‘I don’t fuckin’...you know...like you...just ‘cause you’re pretty.’ He heard Ian’s sharp intake of breath, felt the jerk of his knee under his hand. ‘You’re ridiculous, man,’ he finally said because there wasn’t another word for it. He was ridiculous; a ridiculous mix of sexy and sweet and smart and good and it made Mickey want to just be near him. Ridiculously near. 

Ian was staring at him, an expression on his face that Mickey couldn’t read. Mickey waited but when he didn’t say anything he went to move his hand off his knee. Ian’s hand darted out and covered Mickey’s, clamping it down. Mickey went still. 

‘Mick...’ Ian said and Mickey looked at him but he didn’t say anything, just rested his hot, big hand over Mickey’s and stared at him in the dim light of the office.

‘What?’ Mickey said, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He saw Ian’s eyes flick down to track it. 

‘Mick,’ he said again and Mickey raised his eyebrows. ‘Can I kiss you?’

Mickey didn’t think he’d heard right. His mouth fell open and his hand went rigid under Ian’s. Ian flicked his eyes over his face and waited. Mickey didn’t know what the fuck to do. 

‘We don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ Ian said softly. ‘I just...fuck, Mickey, I really want to kiss you.’

Mickey took in a shuddering breath and let his eyes drop to Ian’s mouth, just for a second. His lips were pink and parted. He looked back up and Ian’s eyes had darkened. Mickey felt the jolt of want in his stomach and before he let himself think too much he nodded. Ian’s eyes went wide. 

‘I might...’ Mickey started and his voice was rough. He licked his lips. ‘I don’t normally kiss. It might not be...’ 

Ian was shaking his head. 

‘Now who’s the fucking idiot,’ he said and Mickey laughed, which meant his mouth was already open when Ian leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mickey’s. 

His mouth was hot. Mickey breathed in sharply through his nose and felt Ian’s mouth close over his bottom lip and then Mickey was kissing him back, hard and desperate and aching to get closer. His hand came up to Ian’s hair and then Ian’s tongue was against his, slick and hot in his mouth. Mickey groaned and pushed his face into Ian’s. Ian’s hand clenched around Mickey’s on his knee and he moaned into Mickey’s mouth, licking into him. Mickey had never kissed anyone like this, had never felt like he was coming out his skin just as much as he felt he’d never so solidly been in his own body before. 

Ian pulled away from with a gasp and Mickey realised his eyes had been closed. He opened them to find Ian’s face close to his, forehead resting against him and breath fanning across his lips. 

‘Shit,’ Ian muttered and Mickey huffed a laugh. Shit was right. His heart was pounding in his throat. Ian’s eyes fluttered open, watching him, and Mickey stared at him as Ian leaned forward again and very gently, carefully kissed Mickey, just brushing his mouth with his lips and tongue. Mickey leaned forward as Ian leaned back. ‘Shit,’ Ian said again. Mickey let his head drop against the door. 

‘Imagine what’s gunna happen when we fuck,’ Mickey said and Ian’s mouth dropped open and then he was laughing slightly hysterically, shoulders shaking as he put his face in his hand. Mickey grinned, watching him lose it. 

‘Fuck, Mickey. You can’t just say shit like that. I’m at work,’ Ian finally said as he got a hold of himself. 

‘That’s your only problem with it? Being at work?’ Mickey asked, pushing his tongue into the corner of his mouth and watching Ian’s gaze get caught on his mouth again. 

‘That is absolutely my only problem with it. And if we’re not careful I think I could talk my way around it.’

Mickey raised his eyebrows and watched Ian start to lean forward again before he jerked himself back, shaking his head. 

‘Nope, nope, nope,’ he said, getting to his feet. 

‘Where you going, Gallagher?’ Mickey said.

‘Get up,’ Ian said, reaching down to haul Mickey up. If he thought that was going to help he was sorely mistaken. As soon as Mickey was on his feet he was reminded that Ian’s mouth was just there, at exactly the right height. Ian seemed to be thinking the same thing because he let go of Mickey’s hand and with a groan pushed him purposely against the door and reconnected their mouths, pushing his entire body against Mickey’s, pining him to the solid surface. Mickey was powerless to do anything but kiss back, amazed at how easy it was, how right it felt to let his mouth fall open, let his tongue sweep across Ian’s, let him teeth graze his lower lip. That made Ian groan and Mickey felt a bubble of pride swell in his chest. He did it again and Ian ground himself painful against the length of Mickey’s body. He was unbelievably hard. He nipped at Ian’s mouth and Ian pulled away, shaking his head. He took two deliberate steps back, eyes on Mickey the entire time, and sank into his desk chair. 

‘Sit down,’ he said to Mickey, sounding breathless. Mickey grinned. 

‘Stand up, sit down. Make your mind up, Gallagher.’ He dropped into his chair, adjusting himself carefully. He couldn’t remember ever being this turned on. 

Ian frowned at him and pushed his hand through his hair, trying to straighten the parts that Mickey had had his hands in. For a few moments the only sounds were their panting breaths as they got themselves under control.

‘Okay,’ Ian said eventually and Mickey raised his eyebrows. ‘So, that was...’ He trailed off and Mickey grinned, a full face smile. Ian looked almost startled.

‘Yeah, it was,’ Mickey said. 

Ian was chewing his bottom lip and Mickey watched his closely. 

‘You okay, Gallagher?’

Ian ran his hand through his hair again. 

‘Some of the problems, when I was younger, they were sex related.’

Mickey’s eyebrows went up and he glanced down at Ian’s crotch. He’d felt him, pushing up against his thigh. Didn’t seem like he had a problem. Ian seemed to read his mind and shook his head. 

‘Not performing. Just...that’s what people wanted and I used it.’

‘Okay,’ Mickey said, not quite sure what he was saying. 

‘So, I’ve stayed away,’ Ian said. 

‘From sex?’ Mickey could hear the surprise in his voice and apparently so could Ian. He nodded. 

‘I promised myself the next time I’d make it not just about the sex.’

‘Okay,’ Mickey said again.

‘I really want to have sex with you,’ Ian said and Mickey almost laughed. If Ian thought Mickey didn’t want to after that then Mickey wasn’t sure what to do. ‘But that’s not all I want.’ He looked worried and Mickey suddenly got it. He nodded slowly and got to his feet. Ian watched him, bottom lip back in his mouth. Mickey stopped into front of Ian’s chair and Ian looked up at him, watching Mickey put his hands on the arms of Ian’s chair and lean into his space. 

‘Gallagher,’ Mickey said, carefully and deliberately clearly. ‘I don’t go around doing shit like this. Ever. So listen to me when I say I’m not just here ‘cause I wanna fuck you. I don’t fuckin’ understand this,’ he gestured between them. ‘But I’m fuckin’ in, if you want that.’ Ian was nodding before Mickey had even finished. ‘Okay, so let’s settle this shit now. You’re hot, I want to fuck you but I really fuckin’ like talking to you and I’ve never fuckin’ told anyone as much as I’ve told you and it’s scary as shit but that’s what it is.’ He paused before leaning forward and gently pushing his mouth onto Ian’s. Mickey had never kissed anyone first before. He kept it short and when he pulled back Ian’s eyes were wide. ‘Okay?’ Ian nodded and Mickey went to move away. Ian grabbed his arm’s and held him for a second. 

‘Mickey, just...you’ve got me, in your corner, on your side, whatever you need. I’ve never...I’ve never felt like this.’

Ian’s eyes were serious and clear and Mickey felt something big bubbling in his chest. He nodded curtly and moved to sit back down. Ian let his hands slide down Mickey’s arms as he moved away but didn’t stop him. They looked at each other for a few beats before Mickey rolled his eyes and looked away. 

‘You gunna ask me a bunch of shrink questions about this now?’

Ian laughed and shook his head. 

‘No, Mickey. Just turn the light on and we can...we can both stay in our own chairs and talk.’

Mickey grinned and reached to turn on the light. They both blinked and Ian reached for his notebook on the desk. Mickey groaned. 

‘What you making notes for? Thought we were just talking.’

‘We are,’ Ian said. ‘But last night you said that maybe something was happening.’ He looked up at Mickey. ‘Want to talk about it.’

Mickey didn’t. He didn’t want to bring Murphy into the room with them. He shrugged but Ian just stared at him. 

‘There’s a guy,’ Mickey said and Ian nodded encouragingly. ‘Another inmate. Knew my brother in lock up, got transferred here, bunk under me. He...he knows about me, about my dad and the arrest and shit.’

Ian frowned. 

‘How did he find out?’

Mickey huffed a laugh. 

‘Cause no one taught Colin how to keep his fucking mouth shut.’

‘Colin’s your brother?’

Mickey nodded. 

‘Yeah. He was inside when it happened but Iggy must have told him.’

‘Iggy’s another brother?’

Mickey nodded. 

‘Milkovich’s are like rabbits.’

‘So, he knows? This other inmate.’

Mickey rubbed the back of his neck. 

‘Yeah. Wants me to do something so he won’t tell. Fuckin’ asshole.’

‘Mickey,’ Ian said, leaning forward. ‘Something illegal?’

Mickey rolled his eyes. 

‘It’s prison, man.’ 

‘Something that will stop your parole?’

Mickey shrugged. 

‘If I get caught.’

‘Don’t do it,’ Ian said and Mickey raised his eyebrows. 

‘What?’

‘Mickey, you could be out in a year. Less than if I write positive reports, which I will. Please don’t fuck it up.’

‘So what? I’m just supposed to let some prick shout my shit all over. My life’ll be fucked.’ 

Ian chewed his lip. 

‘I don’t know. I don’t,’ he said when Mickey rolled his eyes. ‘But give me the weekend to think. Don’t do anything over the weekend and we’ll think of something. Please.’

Mickey stared at him and Ian leaned forward, hand on Mickey knee. 

‘Please don’t do anything to mess up your parole.’

Mickey chewed his lip.

‘You gunna wait for me, Gallagher?’ He meant to sound cocky but he knew he hadn’t managed it. 

Ian rolled his eyes and nodded, once. 

‘Yeah, Mickey. I’m going to wait. So don’t fuck it up.’ 

There was a knock at the door. 

‘One moment,’ Ian called. His voice dropped. ‘Please Mickey. Let’s talk over the weekend and I’ll book you in for Monday.’ 

Mickey nodded and Ian huffed out a breath, glancing at the door. He bit his lip and dropped his voice. 

‘Obviously there’s a guard on the other side of the door so I’m not going to but you should know I’m thinking about kissing you right now.’

Mickey grinned and Ian smiled. 

‘Come in,’ he called and Walsh opened the door. Mickey was on his feet and Walsh clapped him on the shoulder.

‘He all fixed, doc,’ he said with a grin and Mickey rolled his eyes. 

‘We’re making progress,’ Ian said, eyes flicking to Mickey who bit hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling. 

‘Good to hear. I’m kinda fond of our Ukrainian terror,’ Walsh said and Ian frowned. 

‘You’re Ukrainian?’ he asked Mickey who managed not to roll his eyes. He could see that Ian didn’t like Walsh knowing something he didn’t.

‘Milkovich,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Not a big deal.’

Walsh smiled and tugged on Mickey’s shoulder. 

‘Come on then, Milkovich. Let’s go.’ 

Mickey followed him, chancing a glance back at Ian, noting that his hair still showed the evidence of Mickey’s hands. 

‘Arms out,’ Walsh said, at the gate and Mickey assumed the position, letting Walsh pat him down and check his pockets. ‘We’re good,’ he said to the guard beyond the gate who unlocked it for them. Mickey glanced up at the sound of footsteps and saw Brooks walking towards them. 

‘I’ll take him from here,’ he said to Walsh who frowned. 

‘It’s alright, I’m heading back that way,’ Walsh said, not letting go of Mickey. 

‘Need you in B. I’ll take Milkovich.’ Brooks put his hand on Mickey’s other arm and Walsh let go, shrugging. Brooks started to walk away and Mickey glanced back to see Walsh standing there, frowning slightly. 

Mickey didn’t feel the need to talk, just let himself be led along. He expected Brooks to release him when they got back to main holding but his hand remained firm on Mickey’s arm and he kept walking. 

‘Where we going?’ 

Brooks smiled and Mickey frowned. 

‘Got a little surprise for you,’ Brooks said. 

‘What?’ Mickey said as they walked down the corridor that led to the library. 

‘You’ll see’ Brooks said and pushed the doors open. Murphy was sitting at the pitted table in the middle of the room, grinning in a way that showed all his teeth. Mickey stopped, Brooks jerking him forward another step. 

‘What the fuck?’ Mickey said. ‘What’s going on?’

Murphy grinned wider. 

‘Didn’t want to miss it. Happy event like this,’ Murphy said. 

‘Always a nice thing to see,’ Brooks said, smiling. 

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Mickey snapped. Brooks had stepped behind him and Murphy stood slowly at the table. A noise came from between the two stacks, the sound of a book being replaced. Murphy grinned, looking manic, as someone walked out from the stacks. Someone big and solid and really there. 

Mickey took a step back, colliding with Brooks. He thought his legs might give out.

‘Hello, Mickey.’

All the air seemed to leave Mickey’s lungs. 

‘Dad.’


	14. Too Deep To Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All your comments have been amazing! I'm sorry to have left the cliff hanger dangling for so long. I've just started temporarily working nights and it's thrown my whole life into disarray (If you work nights I absolutely take my hat off to you!) But I'm getting a handle on it now and I know exactly where this story is going and I'm excited to tell it. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

Mickey hadn’t called. Mickey hadn’t called on Friday night, he hadn’t called on Saturday, he hadn’t called on Sunday and Ian had started to feel like he was crawling out of his skin with worry some time around Sunday afternoon. He’d spent most of the weekend checking that his phone was charged, had signal, was available and on, and still Mickey hadn’t called. 

Fiona had noticed on Sunday. She’d waited until he was washing the dishes to lean next to him, head cocked and eyes worried. 

‘What’s going on?’ she’d asked, reaching out for a wet plate and carefully drying it while Ian had tried to look anywhere but at her. 

He hadn’t told her. He didn’t know how to tell her, didn’t know how to put it all into words without her thinking he was being irresponsible and impetuous, without her reaching straight for manic as an answer. He’d shook his head and she’d watched him for a minute before bringing up her hand, wet with soap suds, to brush the hair across his forehead. 

‘Here for when you’re ready,’ she’d said and then she’d squeezed his hand as he forced himself not to cry. 

Why wasn’t Mickey calling? Had something happened with the inmate who was blackmailing him? He’d said he’d call, there was a plan to call. Ian’s imagination was filling in the answers and the worry of it was eating away at him.

He arrived at the prison earlier then he ever had before on Monday morning, hoping that just being in the same building as Mickey would help alleviate some of the tension. He’d slept fitfully, he knew there were dark smudges under his eyes. He’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, swinging between memories of Mickey’s last session, of his flushed, recently kissed face, and the thoughts of what might be happening to him, locked away where Ian couldn’t reach him. He tried to argue his way into the idea that he was overreacting but then the image of Mickey’s swollen, bruised eye and bruised ribs would float out of the darkness and Ian would feel his stomach clench in worry. 

Ian sat in his office, mug of weak coffee cradled against his chest, and stared at the door. He’d pushed Mickey up against that door. He’d kissed Mickey against that door. He’d spent most of the Friday after it had happened reliving it, trying to fix in his memory Mickey’s face just before Ian had leaned in to kiss him. His eyes had been wide and so blue, his ever expressive face caught somewhere between panic and want and Ian had never wanted to kiss someone so much as he had when Mickey had stumbled his way to telling Ian how he was feeling. Ian’s chest had actually ached with the want of it all. And then Friday night had past and Mickey hadn’t called. 

There was a light tap on the door. Ian jumped and glanced round as if the evidence of his memories could be seen scattered around the office. He ran a hand through his hair. 

‘Come in,’ he said and Ana pushed the door open. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ she said, closing the door behind her and sitting down in the chair Mickey always sat in. ‘You’re in early.’ She was looking at his face and he knew she could see the evidence of his weekend and sleepless nights. 

‘Lots to do,’ Ian said and he tried to smile but it felt weak. 

‘Yeah, I can see that.’ She looked at his unopened shoulder bag, at the bare top of his desk, at the computer he hadn’t even bothered to turn on. ‘Ian…’

He shook his head. 

‘Ana, don’t. Just…I can’t.’

She sighed and leaned forward, hands wrapped around her own coffee mug. 

‘Where are you? 1-10?’ 

Ian bit his lip and fought to keep his knee from jerking up and down. He could lie, he should lie. A lie wouldn’t freak her out. The truth would mean he should talk about it, she’d want him to talk about it. He didn’t know how to talk about it. He closed his eyes. When he opened them she was watching him, eyes soft and face as judgement free as anyone Ian had ever met. 

‘A 9,’ Ian said quietly. 

She nodded, put her mug on the floor by her chair and stood up. She put her hand out and he took it, letting her pull him up. She smelt like the shea body butter she always used and as she wrapped her arms around him Ian allowed himself to lean into her, let his head rest into the crook of her neck. She hugged hard, using her arms to ground and support him.

‘I’m here,’ she said and he felt her voice vibrated through his chest. ‘I’m always here.’ 

He nodded into her shoulder and let her squeeze him hard before he pulled away. 

‘It…it might not be as bad as I think it is,’ Ian said, biting his lip.

‘Most things usually aren’t as bad as we worry they’re going to be,’ she said, gripping his hands in hers. 

‘I’ll know by this afternoon.’ He’d booked Mickey in for the 10am slot, desperate to see him again. ‘Can we talk after today?’ 

She squeezed his hands and nodded. 

‘Come to mine after work. We’ll eat takeout and you can tell me whatever you want to, whatever you need to. I’ll even lend you Biscuit if you need to cry into his fur,’ she said and Ian gave a weak smile. ‘Stupid cat loves you more than me anyway.’ 

‘You don’t do head scratches right,’ Ian said, letting go of her hands and running his hand over his face. 

‘I feed him and pay the damn bills when the idiot eats Christmas ornaments. He can take the head scratches I’m willing to give.’ She was smiling softly at him and he let out a sigh. ‘We’ll figure this out. Okay?’

‘I hope so,’ he said and he really did. He didn’t know how to get through not being able to see Mickey, talk to him, didn’t know how to deal with the constant worry that he wasn’t safe, that something was happening to him. It was frightening how much Ian was feeling for him, how quickly he had become the thing Ian wanted and needed to feel normal. ‘I just need…’ He needed to see Mickey, to talk to him. ‘I’ll know soon what’s happening and then…then I’ll know.’ 

‘And we’ll deal,’ she said, leaning down to pick up her mug. ‘Whatever it is, we’ll deal.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Now, head in the game. You got a 9am?’ 

‘Yeah. Yeah, one of my regular guys,’ Ian said, reaching for his bag and flicking it open. He rolled his shoulders and clicked on his computer. ‘You?’

She nodded and reached for the door, turning to watch him unpack and prepare for his first patient. 

‘Ian?’

He looked up. 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘I’m really proud of you,’ she said and Ian stared at her, one hand hovering over the desk, file in hand. ‘I just want you to know that nothing you tell me is going to change that. Now get to work.’ She smiled at his jerky nod and opened the door, closing it behind her as she slipped out.

Ian dropped into his chair, flicking open the first file of his day. One session, he just needed to get through this one session and then he’d see Mickey, then he’d know what was happening, then he could touch him. Ian took a deep breath and started to read his notes, conscious that a part of his mind wasn’t focused on the task in hand but rather picturing blue eyes and pale skin and suggestive eyebrows. One hour, all of that in one hour. 

**********************

At ten minutes past ten Ian thought he was going to be sick. There was no Mickey. There was no one. His last session had finished and Ian had felt his heart in his throat as the clock ticked closer to Mickey’s time and then the minutes had ticked past and there was no Mickey. 

Ian stood up. Then he sat down. He spun in his chair, opened his emails, checked that there was nothing. Closed his emails. Spun back round. Turned quickly and opened his emails to check the junk folder. He was staring to breath too quickly. He looked at his watch, at the clock in the corner of his screen, at the clock on the wall. They were all telling him the same thing; Mickey wasn’t coming.

The panic was starting to bubble over inside him and Ian stood up. He didn’t know what to do. Ana had a patient, their immediate supervisor was available only by email, Paul wasn’t there and he’d been the senior member of staff. Ian walked to the door, turned and walked back. He was digging his nails into his palms. He looked at his watch again before throwing his door open and walking down the corridor to the gate. The guard on the other side raised his eyebrows.

‘All okay?’ he asked, glancing at Ian’s clenched fists and tense posture. Ian forced himself to relax. He wasn’t going to get anywhere storming around. He took a breath.

‘I need to go see whoever’s in charge of A Block,’ Ian said, trying to sound calm. ‘One of my patients didn’t make his appointment.’

The guard shrugged. 

‘There’s a form for that, right? To report them,’ the guard said and Ian fought to tamp down his panic. 

‘This is a time sensitive issue,’ Ian said, grasping to sound like he was a concerned therapist and not a frantic…whatever he was to Mickey. ‘I have concerns regarding the inmates safety. It’s extremely important that I see whoever’s in charge.’ 

The guard eyed him warily before reaching for his walkie talkie on his belt. He turned away from Ian and spoke into it, leaving Ian to stare at the locked gate. The bubble of panic was morphing into something like hysteria. How did Mickey deal with not being able to walk wherever him wanted, with constantly being faced with locked gates? How did anyone deal with that?

The guard waited for a reply and turned back to Ian, reaching for his keys. He unlocked the door and Ian walked through. 

‘You know the way?’ 

Ian shook his head. He never had a reason to wander the prison. The guard nodded down a corridor.

‘Straight down there, take a left and you’ll reach another gate. They know you’re coming.’

Ian nodded and walked away, trying not to look like he wanted to sprint. His heart was pounding in his ears, his footsteps loud in the empty corridor. There was a guard waiting at the next gate. He unlocked it for Ian and gestured to a window further down the next long corridor. It was protected by thick perspex. Further down Ian could see another gate. Beyond that another corridor with several inmates leaning up against the wall. Ian made his way to the window and tapped. A bored looking guard glanced up before sliding the window open. 

‘Help you?’ 

‘I’m from the counselling department,’ Ian said. ‘One of my patients missed his session and I’m concerned for his welfare.’ 

‘Inmate’s name?’ 

‘Milkovich,’ Ian said, hands clenched into fists.

‘Which one?’  
Ian’s heart jerked in his chest. 

‘Which one? What do you mean?’

The guard looked at him, eyebrows raised. 

‘Which Milkovich? We’ve got two.’

Ian felt sick. 

‘Mickey,’ he said. ‘Mikhalio.’ 

‘Ah,’ the guard nodded, looking unconcerned. ‘Yeah he’s going to be out for a while. Someone should have let you know.’

Ian felt like there wasn’t enough air. 

‘Out? Where is he?’ 

There must have been something in Ian’s face because the guard was frowning. He glanced at his computer, clicked a couple of times. 

‘Infirmary over the weekend. Solitary now.’

Infirmary. The word was loud in Ian’s head. He fought to keep his voice from shaking but he wasn’t sure he was succeeding. 

‘What happened?’ he managed to get out. 

The guard shrugged. 

‘Got into it with some guy. Got himself stabbed.’

Ian was going to throw up. He could feel his vision tunnelling. He put a hand out and tried to steady himself against the wall. 

‘Stabbed?’

The guard was watching him warily. 

‘Yeah. Nothing serious. Infirmary patched him up. Solitary’ll cool him down.’ He watched Ian for minute. ‘We good here? I’m sure you’ll get a report.’

Ian nodded without really knowing what he was doing and the guard went to slide the window closed. Ian reached out to stop it just before it closed. The guard looked impatient. 

‘Who…’ Ian breathed out. ‘Who’s the other Milkovich?’

The guard paused before shrugging again. 

‘Terry,’ the guard said and as Ian’s finger’s lost their grip on the window he pushed it closed. Ian swayed slightly before walking away, back down the corridor the way he had come. His breathing was shallow. He was sweating. This was panic. He turned the corner into an empty corridor and felt his legs give out. He reached a hand out and leaned hard against the wall. He tried to count his breaths, forced himself to focus on getting air in and out. 

Mickey had been stabbed. Terry was in the same prison as Mickey. Mickey had been stabbed. How could Terry be here? He’d beaten Mickey, he shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near him. Mickey had been stabbed. 

Ian’s eyes were closed and he was breathing so loudly he didn’t hear the footsteps at first. It was only when a hand landed on his arm that he registered another person there. He jumped, swinging round, fists clenched, heart pounding. 

Walsh held up his hands, taking two steps away from Ian. 

‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

Ian blinked at him, straightened and tried to get his breathing back under control. Walsh watched him.

‘It’s Gallagher, right?’ Walsh said eventually and Ian nodded. ‘You’re Mickey’s counsellor guy?’ Ian nodded again and Walsh frowned. ‘Saw you at the window. You checking on him?’

Ian took a breath and nodded. 

‘He didn’t come to his session.’

Walsh nodded once but he looked concerned, glancing behind him and over Ian’s shoulder. He seemed to be considering Ian and Ian tried to look like his world hadn’t just folded in on him. Walsh gave another quick nod.

‘They told you what happened?’ 

‘The basics,’ Ian said and the thought of it washed over him again. Mickey had been stabbed. 

Walsh watched him. 

‘You want to see him?’ he said quickly as if were worried he shouldn’t be saying it at all. 

Ian thought he’d heard wrong. 

‘Yes,’ he said, desperate and quick. ‘Yes, I want to see him. Is…is that allowed?’ 

Walsh shifted, moving from foot to foot, and glanced over his shoulder again. 

‘You’re his counsellor, right? You might have concerns about his…about his mental health, him doing something,’ Walsh said and Ian was hit with another punch of panic. 

‘Do you have concerns about that?’ Ian asked and he didn’t like the pause before Walsh dropped his gaze. 

‘I don’t know,’ he said and Ian wanted to cry. ‘But I think having his counsellor…assess him might not be the worst idea.’

Ian nodded, quickly. 

‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ he said and Walsh nodded, looking worried. 

‘Follow me,’ he said and made his way back down the corridor. He turned at the corner and stopped at the window. The guard slid it open, eyeing Ian curiously. 

‘Sign him in,’ Walsh said. ‘You got your ID?’ he asked Ian and Ian fumbled as he unclipped it from his belt. Walsh slid it to the guard who filled in a form. Ian watched him writing, willing him to speed up. He almost snatched the pen and form in his haste to sign it. Walsh waited for him to clip his badge back to his belt before leading him down towards main holding. They didn’t speak, waiting for endless gates to be unlocked. Ian kept his eyes down, following Walsh closely, as they moved further into the prison. 

Finally they reached a short corridor at a dead end and Walsh spoke quietly to the guard. He flicked a quick glance at Ian but Walsh patted him on the shoulder and he handed over a set of keys. Walsh inclined his head and Ian followed him to the furthest door. Walsh hesitated.

‘He’s…he’s not in great shape,’ he said and Ian tried to nod. He felt like there was too much saliva in his mouth. ‘Just be prepared.’ And then he slid the key into the lock and swung opened the door. 

‘Oh, Mick.’ It came out like a sob. Ian couldn’t help it. The cell was bare except for a thin bunk and a toilet. Mickey was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. His face was a mess of purple and red stained bruises. His bottom lip was split. There was a gash under his ear. Ian thought he could make out finger marks on his neck. A thick heavy bandage was wrapped around his right arm, the stain of blood seeping through the layers. 

He looked small and broken and alone and Ian’s heart broke. He took a step into the cell and Walsh put a hand on his arm. Ian wanted to throw him off but he glanced at him and saw Walsh was looking at Mickey and there was concern and worry there. Walsh looked at Ian. 

‘I can give you five minutes, okay?’ 

Ian nodded and Walsh let him go. 

‘I’m down there,’ Walsh said, nodding at the guards desk. ‘I can’t close the door but I’ll make sure you’re not overheard. Doctor patient confidentiality, right?’

Ian nodded. 

‘Thank you,’ he said and Walsh gave a single nod before moving away. Ian took a breath and walked into the cell. Mickey hadn’t looked up once. Ian dropped onto his knees in front of him. He reached forward and Mickey flinched away. Ian took another breath. 

‘Mickey,’ he said quietly. ‘Mickey, look at me.’ 

Mickey didn’t. He smelt like sweat and blood. Ian fought not to cry. 

‘Mickey,’ he said again. ‘Let’s get off the floor.’

‘Go away, Gallagher,’ he said quietly and his voice sounded raw. Ian shook his head. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not going away. Come on, you need to get off the floor. It’s cold.’ 

The cell was freezing. Mickey’s arms were uncovered. Ian touched his fingers lightly to his unbandaged forearm. He was so cold. 

‘Come on, Mick.’ He reached out again and Mickey let him gently take his arm, let him help him to his feet. Mickey’s movements were stiff. He looked like everything hurt. Ian held him loosely, trying to find the way best way to hold him without hurting him. Mickey was starting blankly at the wall. 

‘Come here,’ Ian said and gently led his over to the metal bunk. There was a thin rubber pad on the bunk and it was hardly warmer than the floor but Ian sat down, drawing Mickey down next to him. Mickey sat, stiffly and slightly away from him. Ian stared at the side of his face, desperate to know what to do to help him. 

‘Shit, Mick,’ he breathed out and Mickey closed his eyes briefly. Ian reached out and touched his arm. Mickey didn’t pull away but he went stiff under Ian’s touch. ‘Look at me, Mickey.’

‘You need to leave,’ Mickey said, his voice flat. 

‘Mickey, please,’ Ian said and when he didn’t look Ian stood up. He saw Mickey’s eyes flick over, knew he thought Ian was leaving. Ian dropped into a crouch in front of him, holding himself with a hand on either side of Mickey on the mattress. He put his face directly in front of Mickey’s, not looking at the bruises or the cuts but at his wide, blue, terrified eyes.

‘Mickey,’ he breathed out and Mickey met his eyes. Something in Ian broke and he dropped his head forward, let his forehead rest against Mickey’s, let some of the hot tears spill out as he felt Mickey push back slightly. He didn’t know if this would hurt him but he needed some kind of contact, something to convince him that Mickey was there and alive, despite his injuries. He let one of his hands move to Mickey’s thigh, desperate for the physical contact. ‘What do you need?’ he asked. 

There was a pause. 

‘I need you to leave, Gallagher.’ Mickey sounded broken and Ian pushed his head forward slightly, shaking his head just a little. ‘I’m serious, you need to leave it alone.’

‘I can’t. I don’t want…I can’t do that,’ Ian said, voice breaking. He pulled back and looked directly at Mickey, watched him close his eyes, watched a look like pain flash across his face. Ian risked slowly raising a hand to cup the side of Mickey’s face, gently and carefully. He waited until Mickey leaned in slightly and then softly stroked his thumb across Mickey’s ear. The skin of his ear was soft and there was a slight scuff of stubble under his palm. He could feel every hitch of Mickey’s breath and he waited, thinking Mickey might push him away. He didn’t. 

‘He will kill me, Ian. He’ll kill me.’ He sounded so sure. He sounded as if he had accepted that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

‘We’ll…’ Ian started but Mickey shook his head. Ian raised his other hand, cupping Mickey’s face. He held him gently, let him drop his head forward, took the weight of it. He felt rather than saw the moment Mickey let go. He felt the shudder run through him, felt the wet drip of tears on his skin, felt the grip of Mickey’s hand as he reached forward and clutched his shirt. He dropped his mouth automatically to Mickey’s forehead and just rested it there. Mickey’s skin was hot to the touch and Ian curled his fingers tighter against the his face, holding him steady as he crumbled. 

After a minute Mickey pulled his head back and Ian let him, let them get far enough away to look at each other. Ian brushed gently at the tears on Mickey’s cheeks. 

‘We’ll figure this out,’ Ian said quietly. ‘I’m here and we’ll figure it out.’ 

Mickey stared at him, eyes moving over every part of Ian’s face, before he reached up and pulled Ian’s hands away from his face. He shook his head. 

‘You need to get out while you can,’ he said and before Ian could say anything he was shaking his head. ‘I’m not worth it, Gallagher. Go.’

Ian was shaking his head but Mickey was still talking. 

‘I’m poison, Gallagher. Defective.’

‘That’s not true. That’s your dad talking.’

Mickey jerked away from him. Ian reached out and took his face again. 

‘I’m made wrong,’ Mickey said and he was almost crying. ‘This thing in me is wrong.’

‘No. No. Mickey, you’re not…fuck, Mick. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing. Being gay is not a defect, it’s not something you need to fix.’ He forced Mickey to look at him, held his face steady. ‘You’re not defective, Mickey. You’re…you’re absolutely perfect.’

Mickey tried to pull away but Ian held him. He was crying now and Ian could feel the hot spill of tears on his own cheeks. He put both hands back to Mickey’s face.

‘Mickey, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted,’ he said, quickly and urgently. He let his lip brush over Mickey’s hot, wet cheeks. ‘Please…please let me help you. Believe me that I’m going to find a way to help you. I’m not walking away. I…’

There were footsteps in the corridor and Mickey jerked away, pulling out of Ian’s grasp. He turned his head away and Ian stood up, brushing the tears from his face. Walsh stopped at the door, Ian could feel him behind him. 

‘We’re going to sort this out,’ Ian said quietly but Mickey didn’t look at him. He kept his face turned away from the door. ‘I’m not letting this go.’

He desperately wanted to lean forward and touch him but he held back. Mickey had gone still, face closed. Ian took a breath before turning around. He took two steps to the door when Mickey spoke so softly Ian almost didn’t hear him. 

‘I’m not sure I’m worth saving.’

Ian turned but Mickey had rolled onto the bunk, back to the door. Walsh waited for Ian to walk out before he closed the door and turned the lock. 

‘Suicide watch?’ Walsh asked and Ian gave a shaky nod. He didn’t know but it would at least give him the peace of mind that someone was watching over Mickey more frequently. 

Ian felt numb. He followed Walsh back through the wing, eyes down. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t know what he’d do if he saw an older version of Mickey sitting at one of the metal tables. Terry Milkovich was a monstrous figure in Ian’s imagination. He followed Walsh back to the counselling corridor, silently walking alongside him. He followed Ian into his office and Ian blinked when he realised he was still there. Walsh fidgeted slightly and Ian waited. 

‘I think one of the guards knew what was going to happen,’ Walsh finally said in rush. Ian stared at him. 

‘Excuse me?’ Ian said. He voice sounded cold and angry. 

Walsh hesitated. 

‘I think one of the guards knew Mickey was going to be attacked. I think…I think he took him there on purpose.’

Fury overwhelmed the numb shock Ian had been feeling. 

‘Someone took him to be beaten? To be stabbed?’ Ian felt like a tightly coiled spring. 

Walsh shrugged and then nodded. 

‘I think so. I don’t know for sure.’

‘Did they know about his dad?’

Walsh shrugged again.

‘I don’t know. I checked the system. There’s nothing on there to say they can’t be in here together, no seperatee order. And his dad didn’t actually touch him. But…but he was there.’

‘His dad didn’t do that?’ Ian asked shocked. 

Walsh shook his head. 

‘No, another inmate. One Mickey had had a previous altercation with. It’s not clear what happened but I think the guard knew what was going to go down.’

Ian was breathing heavily. 

‘Which guard?’ 

Walsh shifted. 

‘Which guard?’ Ian asked again. Walsh didn’t say anything. ‘Was it Brooks?’

Walsh glanced quickly away and then gave a quick nod. 

‘Right,’ Ian said and Walsh looked at him. 

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. 

Ian almost laughed because there was only one thing he wanted to do, one thing he could do. 

‘I’m going to do what no one else has done for Mickey. I’m going to help him.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I promise it's going to be okay in the end.


	15. I See You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A combination of crazy working hours smashing right into a bout of writer's block/writer's insecurity means this has taken far too long to write. As a chapter it's pretty short but it's got me back in the groove and out of the rut so I thank it for that. More to come, I promise. No one's abandoning Mickey in that solitary cell. I appreciate all of you for reading and commenting. I really, really do.

Ian waited. He waited until Ana was finished with her next patient. He sat at his desk and he waited and he tried not to think of Mickey in the solitary cell, cold and hurt and alone. He did think about how he wasn’t reacting in the way he might have expected to. His heart beat was slow and steady, his head felt clear and the wave of cold, certainty of action that had swept over him seemed to be keeping him steady. As long as he didn’t think about Mickey. So he didn’t. He waited. 

‘Hey,’ Ana said when he finally knocked on her door. She glanced up, smile half formed. Her face froze. ‘Ian? What happened?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ Ian said closing the door behind him. 

‘You’re so pale. Sit down.’ She made to stand up, probably to get him a drink but Ian reached a hand out and lightly held her wrist. 

‘Ana, I need to talk to you,’ he said again and she dropped back into her seat and nodded. He took a breath. 

He told her. He told her everything. He told her about Mickey’s first session, about the way his face had caught something in Ian, hooked him and dragged him in before they’d even had a conversation. About fearing that it was mania but really it was something else that felt just as heady, just as frenzied. About talking to Mickey, talking to Paul, talking on the phone on a warm night and feeling like things were clicking into place inside him. About the kiss that felt like the start. About pushing him up against a door, mouth to mouth, and feeling like he was coming up for air after years of breathing through cotton wool. About the burning, desperate need to touch him, to talk to him, to see him. About the fear of bruises and damaged ribs and no phone calls.

He told her about Terry. About violent attacks and scars and so much fear. About isolation cells and more blood. About how much Mickey needed someone and how intensely Ian wanted to be that someone.

He talked until he couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

‘Ian,’ Ana breathed when it was clear he was finished. ‘My god.’

‘I know,’ Ian said. 

‘That’s so much to deal with on your own.’ She took a deep breath and Ian waited, nervous. She rolled her shoulders. ‘Okay,’ she said and her voice was clipped and business like. ‘Okay, so we need a plan.’

Ian blinked. 

‘Really?’

Ana shook her head, smiling at him fondly. 

‘Ian,’ she said. ‘Of course really.’ When he didn’t say anything she touched his knee. ‘Is it an unusual situation? Yes. Have you been reckless? Sure. Am I going to sit here and judge you rather than help you? Absolutely not. I told you, there’s nothing you can tell me that will impact how I feel about you. And, Ian, what you’ve told me has not changed what I think about you at all. Do I wish I could have helped you sooner? Yeah. But you’ve come to me now and I want to help. I want to help you. I want to help Mickey.’

Ian closed his eyes and she squeezed his knee. When he opened them she was smiling at him. 

‘On your side,’ she said. ‘So, let’s make a plan. What were you thinking?’

Ian reached forward and squeezed her hand before setting his shoulders and telling her what he was thinking. By the time he was done she was nodding and making notes, throwing in ideas. 

‘I like it,’ she said, glancing down at what she’d written. ‘I think it’s our best chance.’ She swung round to her computer and opened her scheduling app. She clicked several buttons, glancing back at Ian. ‘Go do yours and send the email to the higher ups. We’ll go from there.’

He managed not to think about Mickey all the way through sending emails, cancelling sessions and packing up his shoulder bag. He managed not to look at the spot by the door where they’d sat pressed together, didn’t think about sitting in the chair where he’d lifted Mickey’s prison issue shirt and written his number onto his pale stomach. He got through the entire process, right up to clicking off the lights before he thought about wrapping his arms around Mickey as he’d struggled to breathe, remembered the way he felt in Ian’s arms, tense and scared, and how Ian had just wanted him to feel surrounded, protected and safe. The memory washed over him and Ian faltered because suddenly he was picturing Mickey sitting on the floor of the solitary cell, his head down, beaten and broken, and everything in Ian wanted to rush to him, hold him, let him know someone was there for him. 

There was a time, Ian knew, when no one would have cared where Mickey was. No one would have gone looking for him. There was a time when no one cared enough to worry about him. It hurt Ian to think about it, to think of Mickey suffering through a life where no one loved him, sitting in that cell now and thinking no one would come. Thinking no one would ever love him. 

Ian was falling in love with him. 

The realisation was so sudden that Ian swayed with it. Ana was standing in the corridor waiting for him to lock his office. She was watching him. 

‘Ian?’ 

‘I’m falling in love with him,’ Ian said, barely more than a whisper but he could hear the quiet awe in his voice. 

‘What?’ Ana said, moving in front of him. ‘Ian, what?’

‘Mickey. I’m falling in love with him,’ Ian said, more loudly. He felt like he was filling up with air. ‘Shit.’

Ana was smiling softly. She reached out and touched his jaw with her fingertips. 

‘Oh Ian,’ she said, softly. ‘Of course you are. I’ve never seen anyone so clearly falling in love before.’

His mouth dropped open and she smiled more widely. She nodded. 

‘When you were talking about him in my office…you looked…you looked alive. You looked filled up with the idea of him.’

Ian nodded.

‘I am. I just…I didn’t know,’ he breathed. She took his keys off him and locked his office. 

‘I’m going to love him,’ Ian said again.

‘You’re going to love him,’ Ana said and Ian let out a breathy laugh. ‘So, let’s go help him.’ 

***********************

Paul opened the door on Ian’s second knock. Miska forced her head past his knees, mouth wide in excited greeting. Paul pushed her back. 

‘Ian,’ he said. ‘Ana. What’s wrong?’ 

‘Can we come in?’ Ian asked and Paul held the door open to let them past. Ian made his way to the kitchen, Miska at his heels. 

‘Something’s happened,’ Paul said. It wasn’t a question. His was looking between them and Ian nodded. ‘Mickey.’ 

Ian nodded again. 

‘We need your help,’ Ana said, taking the seat next to Ian at Paul small, cluttered table. Paul gave a single sharp nod and sat opposite them. 

‘Tell me,’ he said. 

‘It’s…’ Ian started but his voice faltered. He took a breath. ‘It’s Mickey’s dad.’ 

Paul’s eyebrows raised the smallest amount. 

‘They caught him?’

Ian nodded. 

‘Does Mickey know?’ Paul asked, carefully looking between the two of them. 

‘He’s…he’s in Cook County,’ Ian said. ‘They put him in there, with Mickey and he…he…’ There was bile in Ian’s throat. ‘He got Mickey, attacked him. Well, he didn’t but he got another inmate to beat him up, to stab him, and maybe a guard knew and Mickey’s in solitary and I didn’t know why because he just didn’t turn up for a session and he stopped calling me but solitary isn’t forever and the he’ll be back in general with his dad. And he can’t stay in solitary forever. It’ll kill him, it is killing him -‘

Paul stood up from his chair and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder. Ana had reached out and gripped his other arm without him noticing. 

‘Ian, breath,’ Paul said. He pushed down a little too hard and held his hand there while Ian reeled himself back in. He didn’t take his hand away even when Ian felt his chest loosen enough to breath more regularly. 

‘You okay?’ Paul asked and Ian gave a jerky nod. He looked down to see that the dog had rested her heavy head on Ian’s knee. Ian scratched absently at her fur. Paul huffed a laugh. 

‘Stupid creature should be a therapy dog,’ he said, releasing Ian’s shoulder and dropping back into his seat across from them. He watched Ian and Ian felt a flush on his neck. 

‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’ Ian started, not sure where he was going with the sentence but Paul held up his hands. 

‘There’s no judgement in this kitchen, Ian. You can speak freely here.’

He waited but Ian couldn’t find the words to explain how he was feeling. 

‘We want to help Mickey,’ Ana said, giving Ian’s arm a quick squeeze. 

Paul nodded. 

‘You’re absolutely sure Terry Milkovich organised Mickey’s attack?’

‘I’m certain.’

‘Well, then solitary is the best place for Mickey right now. He’s a smart boy, he’ll know that. But he’s going to need more than that.’

Paul started to riffle through the papers that were piled on the kitchen table. Ian stroked the dog and watched him, trying to drag his thoughts away from Mickey alone in his cell. Mickey, who seemed like the world would fall before he did, knocked down and kept down by his own father. 

‘Aha.’ Paul extracted a business card from under a stack of folders. ‘This is our guy.’

He held the card out for Ian, who read the scuffed black lettering. The card looked like it had been handled a lot. 

‘A lawyer?’

‘The lawyer. This is the guy you want in your corner. He’s been doing this almost as long as I have,’ Paul said, taking the card back and turning it in his fingers. ‘I’m going to call him and we’ll get some wheels moving. Mickey’s going to need someone to fight for him in there. Someone beside you, that is.’ Paul looked up at Ian and smiled. Ian felt himself flush. Paul leaned forward. ‘Mickey barely spoke more than thirty word to me, Ian, but I knew there was more to him than just some South Side thug. I think maybe you know that too. And it’s not just him being gay or the situation with his father. He has an air of…I don’t even know.’

‘Strength,’ Ian said after a moment. ‘It’s strength.’

Paul raised an eyebrow and Ian gave a resigned sigh. 

‘I’m not impartial.’ Ana gave his arm another slight squeeze. ‘I’m not here as a therapist. I know you know that but I need to say it. I don’t know how to properly explain it, it feels crazy when I do, but you’re right. I’m here to fight for Mickey. I’m here for Mickey.’

Paul was smiling so softly that Ian felt the burn of tears and had to look away. 

‘Ian,’ Paul said, forcing him to look back up. ‘Mickey is incredibly lucky to have you fighting for him.’

‘Hear hear,’ Ana said quietly next to him and Ian huffed out a laugh. He bushed a hand over his eyes and Ana sat up a little straighter next to him. ‘We have a plan and the lawyer will really help but we need some more information from you.’

Paul held his hands open and smiled at Ana. 

‘I am absolutely at your disposal. What do you need?’

 

***********************

 

Ian checked the address Paul had copied down for him. The house in front of his seemed to be sinking into the ground under the weight of neglect. Loose pieces of fabric had been nailed over the windows and the sagging porch was pitted and weathered. A waterlogged couch took up most the front yard. The gate squeaked when Ian pushed it open. 

No one answered Ian’s first two knocks but he thought he saw the fabric at the window twitch. He knocked again.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ someone asked through the door, a woman’s voice. 

Ian leaned closer to the door. 

‘I’m looking for Mandy Milkovich,’ Ian said. ‘I’m a friend of Mickey.’

There was a long pause. Ian waited. 

‘Mickey doesn’t have friends,’ she finally said and Ian almost laughed. 

‘I’m from the prison. I’ve got ID, if that helps. But…I’m not here officially.’ 

There was another pause and then he heard the slide of a chain, the thunk a bolt, and the door opened just enough for him to see the face of a young woman, a young woman with startlingly familiar eyes. 

‘Mandy?’ he said. 

She looked him up and down, eyebrow cocked slightly. 

‘ID?’ she said, finally. 

Ian fumbled with his prison pass and she took a long time examining his name and picture before handing it back. 

‘He dead?’ she said suddenly and Ian’s mouth fell open. 

‘What? No. No, he’s not dead.’

She was watching him carefully. She had the same stillness as Mickey and Ian tried to keep his face as open as possible. 

‘So what the fuck do you want?’ 

‘Mickey’s in trouble.’

A flicker of something crossed her face but it was gone too quickly to place. She shrugged slightly, carefully nonchalant. 

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

Everything about her stance said she didn’t care but something, something Ian couldn’t put his finger on, was telling him otherwise. He thought maybe she cared quite a lot. 

‘Look,’ he said, stepping forward slightly. She held her ground. ‘I work for the prison but I’m here off my own back. I’m here because Mickey’s in trouble. I’m…’ He didn’t know if she knew about Mickey’s sexuality. It wasn’t Ian’s place to out him. ‘I’m…’

‘You fucking my brother?’ she said suddenly, head ever so slightly on the side, tongue pressed into the side of her mouth. She was so like Mickey. 

Ian hesitated and then shrugged. 

‘Not exactly. I mean, no.’

A small smirk played around her mouth. 

‘You want to fuck my brother?’

Ian grinned slightly and nodded. 

‘Yeah, I really do. But…’ he hesitated. ‘Mostly I think I just want to love him.’

That got the full Milkovich eyebrow raise. 

‘Fuck,’ she said. She gave Ian another quick look up and down before holding the door open. ‘Well, I guess you better come in and tell me what the fuck you’re doing at my house.’

He smiled and moved past her into the house. It was dark and messy inside. There was a table with a jumble of guns at one end. Ian turned back to Mandy who was watching him closely, obviously waiting for him to react with horror or shock. He raised his eyebrow slightly and she smirked again. She folded her arms and planted her feet. 

‘So, Ian Gallagher, what the fuck do you want from me?’


	16. Eyes Up

Time moved differently in solitary. If he’d tried he could maybe have gauged how long he’d been there by the changing colours of his healing bruises or the slow knitting of the skin on the smaller cuts that hadn’t required a stitch or gauze. But Mickey couldn’t find the energy to try. 

He spent hours at a time sitting against the wall, staring fixedly at a chip in the rough blocks three foot away on the opposite wall, barely reacting to the rattle of the flap as a tray of food slid in and then out again, barely touched. He tried to keep his mind empty, blank and cold, but every time his eye drifted closed, exhaustion and weakness overwhelming him, he would be snapped awake again by the looming face of Terry, leaning over him on the library floor, smiling, almost sadly. 

‘No Milkovich is going to be a fag, not one of mine. You had to know it was going to end like this.’

There had been so much blood in Mickey’s mouth that it had splattered across Terry’s face when he’d spat it violently up at him. He’d actually laughed at Terry’s jerk away, at his quick scramble to wipe the blood off. The laugh had turned into a painful, choking punch of air as Terry started kicking him wherever he could reach, each kick punctuated with broken, half incomprehensible shouts. 

‘Fuckin’ Aids monkey…little shit…defective…no fuckin’ son of….kill you…rotten inside…’ 

Mickey thought he’d probably blacked out then because he didn’t remember the kicking stopping but Walsh had suddenly been there and then there were bright lights shining in his eyes and rough stitches in his arm and too much noise. The quiet of solitary had been a relief. Safe and quiet. He could curl up and let it all take him and no one would care. 

Except…Ian. 

Fuckin’ Ian Gallagher. 

Thinking about Ian was worse than remembering the attack. Thinking about Ian hurt something deeper inside him than the stiff, aching results of his beating. Thinking about Ian made everything inside him clench and painfully release, made sounds like dry sobs come out him. 

Mickey had let himself want. He’d wanted things he’d never let himself think about before. He’d wanted to touch Ian. Wanted Ian to touch him. He’d wanted to sit and eat burgers and laugh at Ian’s jokes, casually let their feet touch, their knees. He'd wanted to lie in bed on a lazy morning and trace the cheekbones that he’d tried so hard not to notice, wanted to push his nose into the skin under Ian’s ear and find out if it was soft, if the roughness of his stubble made it seem even softer. Mickey had wanted Ian and it was going to be the thing that killed him. 

Because his dad was right. This thing, this aching want for Ian, was something that was inside him. It wasn’t going away. It wasn’t confusion or crossed wires or not having fucked enough girls like his brothers did. It was built into the core of him and, when he got out into General Population again, it was going to be the thing that killed him. He didn’t think it would be his dad. Terry Milkovich was cruel and mean but he wasn’t stupid. He’d get someone to do it for him, one little favour for a Terry Milkovich promise that if they needed guns or oxy or even a couple of heavies then Terry would provide. Just make sure to kill the fag son that he didn’t want and Terry would make sure to pay his debts. 

The cell door rattled. Mickey didn’t look up, just waited for the slide of the tray along the cold floor. But it didn’t come. 

‘Mickey?’ Walsh was standing at the open cell door, a guard Mickey didn’t know behind him. Mickey blinked up at them. ‘Come on, time to go.’

It was as if his limbs had filled with thick, viscous concrete. He wanted to disappear into the cell floor, wanted to crawl under the bunk and cry like he used to when he was too little to know it didn’t make any difference, that his dad would still be waiting for him, would still find him. 

Walsh was crouching in front of him. Mickey knew he was breathing too quickly. Walsh reached out and he flinched away. 

‘Not Gen Pop,’ Walsh said and Mickey stared at him. ‘You’ve got a meeting.’

‘A what?’ Mickey’s voice was scratchy, thin and cracked from misuse. He wet his lips with his tongue. The guard he didn’t know was looking at him with open curiosity. 

‘A meeting. You’ll see. Come on.’ Walsh put an arm under Mickey’s and helped him to his feet. He stumbled slightly and Walsh’s grip tightened. The guard in the door stepped forward. He was young. A little spark of something flickered in Mickey and he shook his head, pulling himself away from Walsh. 

‘I can fuckin’ walk,’ he mumbled and Walsh laughed, something like relief in the quick, surprised sound. 

‘Pleased to hear it. Didn’t fancy the idea of pushing you round in a wheelchair. Why do you think I bought a newbie?’ 

Newbie frowned but Mickey’s huffed out a laugh and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. As they exited the cell Walsh and the newbie flanked him and they started a slow walk up the corridor. 

‘How long have I been in?’ Mickey asked. 

‘Week and a half. Came down to see you a couple of times. Brought that councillor of yours down about a week ago.’

A week. A week since Ian had knelt in front of him and pressed his forehead into him. It might have been a lifetime ago. It might never have happened. Sometimes Mickey wondered if it was all in his head. 

‘Where we going?’ Mickey asked as they approached the fork that led to Gen Pop.

‘This way,’ Walsh said and turned away, leading them down yet another green corridor, away from the main body of A Block. They took two more turnings, waited at several locked gates before Walsh stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. Inside a tall, thin man in a crumpled, tan suit looked up from the single table. A neat pile of papers sat in front of him. 

‘Hello Mickey,’ he said, standing up but not extending his hand. ‘My name is Arthur Dennis, your lawyer.’ 

 

***************************

 

Ian looked at the clock in his office. He felt as if his heart had lodged itself in his throat. If this didn’t work…if Arthur couldn’t make it work…he forced himself not to think about it. It had to work. 

It had to. 

 

***************************

 

Mickey stood just inside the doorway, Walsh just behind him. 

‘If I could have a moment with my client,’ Arthur Dennis said and Walsh stepped back far enough to close the door behind Mickey. ‘Have a seat, Mickey.’

Mickey waited a beat and then lowered himself slowly into the chair. His ribs complained but they’d stopped burning with every breath. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the man across from him, who was sorting his papers with careful ease. His hair was a ring around his head, white and thin. Brown age spots splattered the bald skin. 

‘You’re a bit old for court appointed,’ Mickey said and Arthur glanced up, smiling slightly. Mickey had had his fair share of court appointed council and they’d usually called it quits before they got as old as this guy. 

‘I am actually part retired,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m also not court appointment.’

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. 

‘Who the fuck hired you? I ain’t got money.’

‘That’s all taken care of. I’m here on a pro bono basis.’ He didn’t explain the term and Mickey was surprised. He’d never met a lawyer or judge who didn’t just assume he was stupid. One guy had spoken so slowly and loudly that Mickey had ended up throwing a chair just to get the fuck out of his court and away from the patronising motherfucker.

‘So, who hired you?’ Mickey asked. He felt like he was missing a big part of the picture. ‘And for what?’ 

‘I was contacted by an old friend of mine, Paul Lewandowski, and he asked for my help in your case.’

‘Paul?’ Mickey said. ‘How did Paul know…what does Paul know?’ 

‘I believe he was contacted by Ian Gallagher.’

Mickey’s face flushed with heat. He could feel it staining his neck. He looked down at the tabletop and pressed his nails into his palms. What the fuck was going on? 

‘They asked me to help with your hearing,’ Arthur continued, tapping his papers into two neat piles. 

Mickey took several breaths. 

‘What fuckin’ hearing?’

Arthur put his hands on the desk and leaned forward. He reminded Mickey of Paul, calm and quiet and competent. 

‘Following your attack in the library on…’ he glanced at his notes, ‘On the nineteenth of his month I was contacted by Paul to start the process of an emergency parole hearing.’

‘Parole?’ Mickey said, sitting up in his chair. 

‘Yes. You have around a year left, you have reformed your prison behaviour to allow for several years of good behaviour and no marks against you and the crime you were convicted of was a non violent offence. You would have been up for parole within the year. However, the nature of the incident that occurred, and those involved in it, means that there is a chance that we can push for an early release.’ 

Mickey realised his mouth was open. 

‘Just ‘cause I got attacked? Why? No one’s ever given a shit before,’ Mickey said and Arthur frowned very faintly. 

‘This isn’t the first attack of this nature?’

Mickey snorted a laugh. 

‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Arthur said. ‘Are you willing to discuss previous attacks?’

‘I ain’t no snitch,’ Mickey said automatically. It was a fact almost wired into his DNA. You don’t snitch. Arthur smiled. 

‘Ian did mention that might be something I came up against.’

Mickey thumbed his bottom lip. The cut was healing into a jagged line. 

‘You spoke to Ian?’ he said carefully and Arthur nodded. 

‘I did. He was very helpful.’

Mickey felt a bubble of panic. 

‘Helpful how?’

Arthur sighed and leaned back in his chair slightly. He studied Mickey for a moment, seemingly considering his next words carefully. Mickey’s heart started to pound. 

‘I want to help get you out of here, Mickey,’ Arthur said. ‘I think you deserve to be out of here. But, you are a repeat offender with a long juvenile record, a complex family history of reoffending and a…shall we say reluctance to kowtow to authority. You are not an easy case to sell for early release if we can’t tell your side of the story.’ He was watching Mickey closely. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Mickey didn’t say anything. ‘I want the panel of parole officers to understand why keeping you in this prison is a danger to you and why they should agree to release you. I also think, if they are given the opportunity, they will find that you are more than your rap sheet suggests.’

Mickey was biting his bottom lip. 

‘You don’t know me,’ he said, hearing the snap in his voice. His heart was beating so hard that he was worried he was going to start hyperventilating again. 

‘I don’t. But I do know the people who are speaking up for you and I trust them. I would very much like for you to trust me.’ 

He waited as Mickey rubbed his sweating palms on his trousers, conscious of the unwashed, dried blood streaking his skin. The bandage on his arm was hard to the touch, the stain of blood a brown rust on the gauze. He thumbed his lip. 

‘What’d I have to say?’ he said finally. 

Arthur leaned forward. 

‘Only what you feel comfortable saying. The more we can give them, background and details, the stronger the picture we paint them. They don’t know you. This is our chance to tell them your story but, it is yours to tell.’

Mickey’s knee was bouncing under the table. He thought of standing in front of a parole panel and telling them everything. It made him want to be back in his solitary cell, safely behind a thick locked door. He thought of saying the things in his head out loud. It made him want to be sick. He thought of snitching and how wrong it felt. 

Then he thought of Ian. He thought of his earnest green eyes. He thought about looking at them in daylight rather than harsh fluorescent strip lighting. He thought about the burning want he’d felt pressed up against Ian’s office door and he thought about how it would feel if Ian was pushing him insistently backwards onto a mattress, hovering over him, the only thing he could see, the only thing he could feel. 

He thought about walking out of his house and feeling the sun on his face, about deciding if he should turn left or right and getting to choose. He thought about long, quiet streets lit by intermittent streetlights, pools of orange between dark stretches where the bulbs had burned out. He thought about running down those streets, letting his legs open up beneath him, feeling his feet pounding the pavement.

He thought about running. He thought about running and turning his head slightly to left and seeing Ian next to him, mouth wide and laughing, eyes bright and pace matching Mickey’s. He thought about running until they felt like they were flying. 

‘What do you want to know?’ he said finally. 

Arthur picked up a pen. 

‘Start at the beginning.’ 

 

**************************

Walsh escorted him from his solitary cell to the showers in B Block early the next morning. Mickey stood under the spray, relishing the lukewarm water and letting it pour over him for a minute before he swiftly scrubbed himself clean. Walsh had brought him a clean set of prison issue trousers and scratchy shirt. Mickey dragged them over his head, trying to ignore the clenching of his stomach at the thought of the hearing. He had told Arthur as much as he could the day before, on the promise that if he changed his mind about speaking himself Arthur could tell the story on his behalf. It was a compromise Mickey had felt confident about the day before but he was starting to feel the panic creeping over him. He rubbed his wet hair with a thread bear towel. 

He’d unwound the bandage on his arm in the shower. The skin of his forearm was red and angry looking, the black stitches stark and raised. Mickey had let the water run over it but he didn’t dry it, worried about splitting something open. 

‘That looks infected,’ Walsh said as he cuffed Mickey’s hands in front of him. 

‘Chicks dig scars, right?’ Mickey said and Walsh laughed. Mickey tried not to think about the fact that in a few hours the entire prison would know that Mickey had never been interested in what chicks liked. He swallowed convulsively. 

‘You ready?’ Walsh asked and Mickey gave a jerky nod. ‘You smell better, at least.’

‘All about first impressions, right,’ Mickey said as they made their way down long corridors. 

Walsh was quiet as they walked and Mickey let himself drift along next to him. As they reached the last gate Walsh turned to him. 

‘Tell them the truth, Mickey,’ he said and Mickey frowned. Walsh gave a quick sharp nod. ‘Tell them the whole truth. Okay?’

Mickey nodded slowly. Walsh looked worried but determined. 

‘Yeah, nothing but the truth, right?’ Mickey said. 

‘I’m serious,’ Walsh said and he really looked it. ‘Lot of people want to help you.’

‘Fuck you talking about, man?’ Mickey said. Lot of people like who? Ian maybe. Paul. 

Walsh frowned. 

‘Just tell the truth,’ he said and then the gate was open and he was striding towards a door, Mickey following behind, confused. He pushed the door open and Mickey followed him through. Arthur was standing by a table, papers neatly laid out in front of him, a spare seat for Mickey waiting next to him. Two men and a women were sitting at a table in front of him, speaking quietly to each other. They stopped when Walsh pushed open the door, looking over at Mickey. He glanced down at the floor, stared at his cuffed hands, and swallowed painfully. 

‘Mickey,’ Walsh said, quietly. ‘Look.’ 

Mickey glanced at him and followed his gaze to behind Arthur’s seat. Mickey’s mouth fell open. 

 

****************************

 

Ian’s head shot up as Walsh pushed the door open and led Mickey in. His bruises were healing, his lip looked like it had knitted together. Ian greedily took in every detail. The stitched wound on his forearm looked angry and infected. It hurt Ian to look at it.

Mickey was looking at the ground. Ian saw Walsh say something quietly to him and watched him look up. His mouth dropped open and Ian sucked in a painful intake of breath. Ana gripped his arm. Mickey looked confused and lost and Ian wanted to run over and gather him in his arms, explain and talk to him, touch him, but he stayed seated and waited until Mickey looked directly at him. It was like a jolt of electricity running through him. He kept the eye contact until Walsh gently led Mickey to the seat next to Arthur and then Ian stared at the back of his head as he sat down, slowly and carefully and obviously still hurting. Ana squeezed his arm again and he set his jaw, ready. 

 

***************************

 

The room was full of people. The chairs lined up behind Arthur, usually used by witnesses called to testify against parole being granted had people sitting in them. Ten, twelve, maybe fifteen people. Mickey found Ian, the red hair drawing his eye, and when their eyes met he felt something shoot through him. He barely felt Walsh leading him towards his chair. His head was reeling with confusion. He didn’t understand. Arthur smiled as he sat down and then turned to the panel seated in front of them. The woman with thick black glasses looked down at her papers. 

‘This is the parole hearing of Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich.’ She looked up. ‘Mr Dennis, if you’d like to begin.’

‘Thank you. As you will see from the papers submitted this emergency parole hearing has been requested due to serious threats to the life of my client. If it pleases I will demonstrate that my client posses no threat to society should he be granted early release. I also hope to demonstrate that continued incarceration will result in serious risk to life.’ 

The woman wrote several notes before looking up. 

‘We’re a full room today,’ she said, looking beyond Mickey to the people sitting behind him. ‘I would like to make it clear to all those assembled that I do not tolerate interruptions. This is a question of Mr Milkovich’s suitability for parole and we will not be swayed by outbreaks.’ She looked around the room sternly. ‘I assume the collection of witnesses is your doing, Mr Dennis?’

He smiled and nodded. 

‘There are a lot of people who believe in Mr Miilkovich,’ he said.

Mickey’s head was spinning. 

‘Indeed. And will Mr Milkovich be speaking on his own behalf today?’

There was a pause. Mickey examined the desk in front of him. 

‘That is the plan,’ Arthur said carefully. 

‘Well then, let’s get on with it. Mr Milkovich?’ Mickey looked up. ‘My name is Susan King and my self and my colleagues will be determining your suitability for parole. Your lawyer has submitted your request and file so today is for us to hear from yourself and any witnesses you intended to use to support your parole. Do you understand?’ 

Mickey gave a quick nod. 

‘A decision will not be made today,’ she continued. Mickey heard a shuffle and whispered muttering from the people behind him and Susan King narrowed her eyes. The shuffling stopped. ‘But, as this is an emergency parole hearing where risk to life has potentially been identified, the decision will be fast tracked to ensure no further risk if that is required. Do you understand?’

Mickey nodded again. 

‘Very well. Mr Dennis, please begin.’

‘Thank you. Our first witness is Amanda Milkovich.’

Mickey jerked his head up, twisting in his chair. He watched as Mandy stood from the seat behind Ian. His mouth dropped when he realised that Iggy was sitting next to her. Iggy grinning lazily when Mickey caught his eye. Mandy walked quickly to a seat next to the table at the front. She glanced at Mickey. She looked nervous but only if you knew her, Mickey thought, something catching in his chest at her careful, closed expression. She sat down and stared straight ahead. 

‘Miss Milkovich,’ Arthur started and she looked over at him. He smiled. ‘May I called you Mandy?’

She gave a quick, sharp nod. Her eyeliner was thick and her eyes looked wide and worried. 

‘Thank you. You are Mickey’s sister?’ Arthur gestured to Mickey and she gave another nod. ‘You grew up in the same house?’ A further nod. ‘I wonder if you could tell us what your childhood was like?’

Mandy chewed her lip, eyes flicking over to the panel of parole officers. Mickey’s stomach was knotted.

‘Mandy,’ Arthur said. She looked over at him and he smiled kindly. She took a deep breath. 

‘Milkovich kids don’t have childhoods,’ she said finally.

‘Can you explain what you mean by that?’ Arthur asked. 

She frowned and scratched her arm. 

‘I mean, if you grow up with Terry for a father you don’t get to be a kid.’

Arthur waited. Mickey glanced back at Iggy. He was chewing his lip. Ian was watching Mandy, a concerned expression on his face. Mickey glanced back at her. She was scratching her arm again, a nervous habit he knew meant she was scared. She looked at Mickey. He saw her take in his injuries, knew she’d seen him in a similar state often enough, but it seemed to decide something for her. She squared her shoulders. 

‘Terry, our dad, is violent and abusive,’ she said, loudly and clearly. ‘He beat all of us but…’ she hesitated. ‘But he beat Mickey most.’

Mickey looked down at his hands, feeling shame crawl up from his stomach. She wasn’t wrong but hearing her words hand in the room made him want to sneak out of the room and hide somewhere dark and small. 

‘How old were you when he started to physically assault you?’ Arthur asked and Mandy flinched slightly at his words. Mickey frowned. 

‘Always,’ Mandy said after a moment. ‘He did it always.’

Susan King was making notes. The two men beside her were watching Mandy closely. 

‘And you say he assaulted Mickey more frequently?’ Arthur asked. 

‘Yeah.’

Susan King looked her from her notes. 

‘Why?’ she asked and Mandy’s head whipped towards her. 

‘What?’ Mandy said. Susan King put down her pen. 

‘Why did he assault Mickey more than you or your other siblings?’ 

Mandy chewed on her lip and looked at Arthur. Susan King looked between them both.

‘Was there a particular reason?’ she asked. 

Mandy had gone pale. She looked at Mickey and he was shocked to see that she looked close to tears. She flicked her gaze back to Arthur before looking at Mickey again. She clearly didn’t know what to do. Mickey saw her look at Iggy in the crowd and then back to Arthur. 

‘Miss Milkovich?’ Susan King prompted. 

Mandy opened her mouth and then closed it. She opened her mouth again. 

Mickey was opening his own mouth before he could stop himself, speaking before he knew he was going to.

‘Because I’m gay.’

The words hung loudly in the suddenly silent room. Mickey made himself meet Susan King’s clear blue eyes. He took a steadying breath.

‘He beat me because I’m gay.’


	17. A Foundation is Just What You Build From

‘He beat me because I’m gay.’

Mickey’s words reverberated through the room and it hurt something deep inside Ian. He wanted to reach out and touch him, just touch his shoulder and let him know that he was there but Mickey’s shoulders were taut and stiff. Even from the back he looked like Ian remembered from their early meetings, distant and alone. Ian didn’t want him to think he was alone anymore. 

Mandy was chewing her lip, looking between Susan King and Mickey.

Susan King gave a sharp nod and made a note. 

‘If you’d like to continue, Mr Dennis,’ she said and Arthur nodded, turning back to Mandy. 

‘The violence was more concentrated towards Mickey?’

Mandy gave a quick nod. 

‘Yeah. Always. Even when we were little. He also...’ she hesitated and Ian saw Mickey’s head snap towards Mandy. Something inside him froze. Mandy took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ‘Mickey used to get in the way if my dad...if my dad...’

‘Mandy.’ Mickey’s voice was a low growl but it cut across the room. Arthur twitched as if to touch Mickey but he hesitated at the last minute. Mandy shook her head, eyes on Mickey. They stared at each other. It felt to Ian as if the entire room was holding its collective breath, waiting. Mandy shook her head again and Mickey’s head dropped. Mandy squared her shoulders. Ian’s heart squeezed painfully. 

‘Mickey used to get in the way if my dad was trying to rape me.’ 

The silence was deep and profound. Ian’s breath caught in his chest. Mandy kept her eyes on Mickey, unblinking. Her voice was clear and loud. 

‘Mickey put himself in the way. Whenever he could.’ She paused. ‘Mickey?’ He looked up. It looked like his head was too heavy for his neck. ‘Mickey is a good person. Terry tried to stop that.’ She waited a beat, eyes fixed on Mickey. ‘He failed.’

 

***************************

‘He failed.’ 

Mickey felt sick. A good person? Most of the time Mickey barely felt like a person at all, let along anything as heady as the idea of being good. Stay alert, stay alive. Anything beyond that was a bonus. 

‘Thank you, Mandy. I appreciate your being here today,’ Arthur said and Mandy stood up. Mickey felt an alien twitch of pride as she walked past the table, back straight and head held high. Arthur shuffled some papers allowing the silence to hold in the room, letting Mandy’s words sink in. After several beats he raised his head. ‘Our second witness today is Doctor Paul Lewandowski.’ 

Mickey watched Paul stand and make his way to the seat at the front of the room.

‘Doctor Lewandowski, can you please explain the nature of your relationship with Mr Milkovich,’ Arthur said. 

‘I am a councillor within this facility. Mr Milkovich was a patient of mine.’

‘Indeed. And how long was Mr Milkovich assigned to you?’

‘Several months. The exact dates are in the file.’

‘What was the reason Mr Milkovich was required to attend counselling during his incarceration?’

‘He was approaching his potential parole date and in the run up to that time there had been a marked decrease in altercations or reprimands. His good behaviour suggested that with the assistance of the counselling department it may have been possible to impact his chance of not reoffending.’

‘Are you of the opinion that Mr Milkovich was a good candidate for such a program?’

‘I am.’

Arthur nodded. Paul looked calm and certain on the stand, a far cry from the washed out, unsure man Mickey had met once a week for their unproductive counselling sessions. Or, Mickey thought, sessions he’d assumed were unproductive. Meeting Paul’s quiet, calm gaze now Mickey wondered just how much he’d taken from the melancholic man who had opened his thoughts to Mickey and laid bare a life beset by feelings of wasted potential and a wistful wanting. 

‘How did Mr Milkovich seem in your sessions?’

Paul smiled. 

‘He was reluctant to engage with me.’

‘So how is it you felt he was a good candidate if he didn’t fully engage with the process?’

‘There are many ways to get to know a person in a counselling session. Often what a person doesn’t say speaks as loudly as what they do. I had read Mr Milkovich’s file, I was aware of the attack by his father that left him in intensive care.’ Mickey swallowed hard. ‘I was able to see a prolonged history of abuse, which was administered by the main male figure in Mr Milkovich’s life. In our sessions I was able to assess that Mr Milkovich was not going to engage in a situation where he didn’t feel safe and that there were very few situations in which he had ever felt safe. There were perhaps none.’

‘How do you feel this affected him?’

‘There are others here who are better placed to speak to this but for myself I realised I was dealing with a young man who had spent his entire life looking over his shoulders, unsure of himself and the impact of his actions on his father. He was a careful, clever young man who had developed the tools he needed to survive in the world he lived. He dealt with prison as he dealt with most things; he learned to survive.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Lewandowski. Before I dismiss you is there anything else you would like to add?’

Paul leaned forward slightly. 

‘I have treated many people in my career. I have given many parole assessments. I have been called here to speak about Mr Milkovich’s suitability for parole and I would like to make it clear that I believe Mr Milkovich possesses no risk should he be paroled. As you can see by this room today he has a strong support network and I believe there are tangible reasons why Mr Milkovich would pose no flight risk.’ Mickey could feel Ian’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. ‘I strongly support Mr Milkovich’s appeal for emergency parole.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Lewandowski. I appreciate you being here today.’

Paul nodded and stood. He smiled slightly at Mickey as he walked past and Mickey tried to focus on that small action. Everything else was too big, too huge to get his head round. His days in solitary had reduced his world to those four walls and now, sitting in this room of people, Mickey felt like he was hurtling outwards too quickly. 

Arthur was looking down at him, a slight frown on his face. 

‘A moment, please,’ he said and Susan King nodded. Arthur sat down and leaned in towards Mickey. ‘Mickey, have some water.’ Arthur poured him a glass and watched Mickey take it with slightly shaking hands. ‘Do you need a minute?’ 

Mickey raised the glass to his mouth. Some of the water slopped over the edge. He realised he was breathing heavily. He tried to calm his breaths and shook his head. 

‘You’re sure?’ Arthur said. 

Mickey nodded, gripping the glass firmly. Arthur watched him. 

‘Yeah,’ he muttered after a moment. ‘Just want to get it over with. I don’t…’ he drew in another couple of breaths. ‘I don’t really get what’s happening.’ 

Mickey could feel the flush on his neck admitting that. He didn’t want Arthur to think he was stupid. It was just…it was a lot.   
But Arthur wasn’t looking at him as if he was stupid. He just looked worried and maybe a little sad. 

‘I should have prepared you better and explained it more clearly. My apologies.’ Mickey opened his mouth but Arthur shook his head. ‘There are two more witnesses to speak, one a psychologist who specialises in cases like your own and then, if you choose to, you can speak. As we spoke about before, there is no pressure to do this but I do think it would help. After that it’s over for today.’

Mickey thumbed his lower lip and nodded. 

‘Okay,’ Mickey said. 

‘Okay?’ 

‘Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.’ 

Arthur’s hand raised briefly and squeezed Mickey’s shoulder. He gave a quick nod and stood again. 

‘Thank you,’ he said to the room at large. ‘We are ready to continue. Doctor Sarah Griffin, if you would please,’ Arthur said, glancing behind him and gesturing to a woman Mickey had never seen before. Mickey watched her stand from her seat near Ian. He let his eyes meet Ian’s for minute before he forced himself to look away. Even that brief moment had been enough to make his pulse jump and he made himself watch the woman settle herself in the seat. She had a similar air to Paul and she smiled briefly at Mickey. 

‘Doctor Griffin, thank you for being here today. I know you have a busy practice and I appreciate you taking the time. If you could please outline your credentials.’

‘Certainly.’ Her voice was light but clear. ‘I am Doctor Sarah Griffin and I’m an APA accredited Psychologist with a Masters in Psychology and a duel doctorate in Clinical Psychology and Behavioural Psychology. My specialisms include the treatment of complex disorders and the impact of long term abuse in childhood. As well as representing myself and my own views on Mr Milkovich’s case I have worked closely on this case with two colleagues I respect highly and who work within the prison counselling team, Ana Navarro and Ian Gallagher, who are also attending this hearing today to demonstrate their strong support of Mr Milkovich’s parole.’ 

Mickey’s mouth had dropped open slightly. He turned his head to look at Ian who was staring at him, eyes soft. 

‘Thank you, Doctor Griffin.’ Mickey pulled his eyes back to the front of the room as Arthur shuffled a few papers. 'If I could begin by asking you to speak on the impact Mr Milkovich’s childhood may have had on his behaviour.’ 

Mickey’s palms were starting to sweat. 

‘I would like to make it clear that I have not personally assessed Mr Milkovich, though I would be more than willing to do so if the parole board feels it necessary. I have, however, spoken to those who have and read his files. I will speak in more general terms to begin.’ She paused and seemed to be considering her words. ‘Abuse takes many forms. Abuse in childhood has long-lasting effects. We often see the ripples of even the most well adjusted childhoods well into our adult lives, from learned behaviour to the repeated patterns we see reflected in those around us. Having read and assessed Mr Milkovich’s file, and having spoken to siblings of Mr Milkovich who gave generously of their time and experiences, I am able to see a history of neglect, abuse and indifference at the hands of Terry Milkovich, the patriarch of the household in which Mr Milkovich grew up.’

‘And what could be the consequences of such prolonged abuse?’

‘I have included a more detailed report within the files provided to the parole board but as succinctly as I can make it the lasting consequence of such parental neglect is something that we call ‘biological embedding’ where the brains circuitry quite literally reshapes itself in relation to stress. It can alter neural responses to stress, boost emotional and physical responses to threat and generate feelings of fragmentation, isolation and self hate. In layman’s terms such abuse disconnects a person from others around them. They are in constant and heightened survival mode.’

‘And you believe this may be true for a case like Mr Milkovich’s?’

‘I believe it may be true for all the Milkovich siblings, yes.’

Mickey’s mouth was dry. 

‘And in these cases, is there a cure?’

Sarah smiled gently. Mickey felt sick. He wanted to look at Ian, wanted to see if there was pity in his face, pity for what a broken mess Mickey was, but he didn’t dare look round. 

‘A cure isn’t how we phrase it.’ Mickey felt sick. ‘However,’ Sarah said, eyes firmly on Mickey, ‘there in absolutely hope. The removal of the abuser is crucial. This is followed by a safe and open environment where someone who has been in an abusive situation can feel safe to express their feelings, to be themselves without fear of reprimand or neglect. Many studies show that all the elements of our lives are interconnected and evidence continues to suggest that we are highly empathetic beings, hardwired to connection. We are not made to live without support, be that familial, friendship or romantic. As well as providing a space where a person can really be listened to there is evidence that a person benefits just as strongly from physical touch, particularly in the case of person who has been touched starved. Touch is a crucial part of connection.’

Mickey thought of Ian’s hands on him, of the shock of feelings Ian touch had generated in him and the surprise he’d felt at just how much he wanted to be touched and wanted to touch Ian back. He touched the inside of his wrist where Ian’s thumb had gently traced circles. 

‘There are many steps that can be taken that can heal the damage done to young lives,’ Sarah continued. ‘Talk therapy is one very positive tool that Mr Milkovich has recently shown himself open and willing to engage in.’

‘And in your professional opinion this is something that could benefit a case such as Mr Milkovich’s?’

‘Absolutely. I have offered, to all the Milkovich siblings, sessions with myself and I would not hesitate in extending that to Mr Milkovich. I strongly support the idea that Mr Milkovich would benefit from the support that could be extended to him outside of this facility.’

‘You mentioned the removal of the abuser; as the parole board will see from the file Mr Milkovich has recently been the victim of a physical attack during which his father was present. I wonder if you could speak to the effect that might have.’

Sarah’s face had gone hard and still. 

‘I cannot stress strongly enough the negative and detrimental impact such an effect would have. Healing and repair from any trauma is a delicate process that can be halted with alarming ease if the abuse is allowed to continue. I would argue that allowing Mr Milkovich to be held in the same facility as his father is perhaps the worst thing for his continued treatment and well being.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Griffin. Is there anything you’d like to add before you step down?’

‘I would like to make it clear that I fully support Mr Milkovich’s request for parole and that I would be more than willing to have him attend sessions with myself if the parole board could see the benefit in such an arrangement.’ She met Mickey’s eyes. ‘There would, of course, be no charge for such sessions. I have a sense that Mr Milkovich has a lot to give society and I would like to help him achieve that.’

Mickey felt himself flush and Arthur nodded. 

‘Thank you, Doctor Griffin. I appreciate your time and expertise today.’ 

Mickey allowed himself to watch her walk back to her seat and let himself glance as Ian again. The look he got back didn’t hold anything like pity, instead his eyes were clear and direct and made something ache in Mickey’s chest. The want to be touched was strong enough to have him digging his fingers into his palms. 

‘As the board will see from the files my client was recently the victim of a violent and prolonged attack. I have provided medical records and witness accounts of the event. The results of the attack are visible on my client,’ Arthur said. Mickey resisted the temptation to pull his arm out of sight. ‘I have also provided a copy of the charge being put forward against this facility that my clients attack was facilitated by a member of staff.’

Mickey’s head snapped up. He hadn’t told anyone about Brooks. You don’t squeal, rule number one. 

‘Clearly this is a serious allegation and I am pleased to say the governor has taken it very seriously,’ Arthur continued. ‘The employee in question has been suspended pending a full investigation and it is my understanding that he is planning to cooperate fully.’ Arthur shuffled some papers and there was a strange expression on his face. ‘Though I understand he has had an unfortunate fall resulting in some injuries that require time to heal so the process may be lengthy. I have, of course, great faith that justice will prevail. Until then if I could call Correction Officer Walsh to speak?’

Mickey stared as Walsh stepped forward. Brooks was suspended? Brooks was injured? Mickey flicked his head round and Iggy caught his eye. When their eyes met Iggy gave the quickest wink and a flash of a smirk. Mickey didn’t need anything else. Brooks was injured. Brooks was going to cooperate fully. Milkovich justice was swift. 

‘Officer Walsh, I believe you are the member of staff responsible for reporting the currently suspended employee?’

Mickey stared at Walsh as he gave a single determined nod. Mickey frowned. The no squealing rule didn’t just apply to the inmates. Guards stood by guards. Always. 

‘Yes, I reported him,’ Walsh said. ‘As I outlined in my report I was suspicious following inmate Milkovich being taken out of my custody as I was transporting him back to the wing following his counselling appointment. I decided to make sure everything was okay and I discovered inmate Milkovich being attacked by an inmate while the guard and another inmate watched the attack take place.’

Mickey blinked. He had a hazy memory of Walsh’s face leaning over him, wide eyed, pale and shocked. Mickey swallowed. 

‘The inmate watching,’ Arthur said. ‘Who was that?’

‘An inmate named Terry Milkovich. Mickey’s…’ Walsh paused, ‘inmate Milkovich’s father.’

‘He didn’t try to stop the attack?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Didn’t try to save his son?’

‘No.’

‘You did’t hear Terry Milkovich make any statements to stop the violent and prolonged attack on his child?’

There was bile in Mickey’s throat. He reached forward and took a mouthful of water. Walsh was looking at Arthur steadily. 

‘I didn’t hear him try to stop it.’

‘Did you hear him say anything?’

Mickey took another mouthful of water. Walsh seemed to swallow hard. 

‘I heard him say “You thought I’d let some faggot live. Should have killed you years ago”.’ 

Mickey heard the gasps from behind him. He risked a glance at Susan King. Her mouth was a hard line. She made a note on the pad in front of her. 

‘And the guard did nothing to stop this?’ Arthur asked.

Walsh shook his head. 

‘No. The guard…’ he paused again, swallowed. ‘The guard said “Better a dead kid than a live fag for a son” and then he…he kind of clapped inmate Terry Milkovich on the shoulder. That was when I entered and stopped the assault.’ Walsh was pale but he looked at Mickey. ‘I don’t believe that, any of that homophobic stuff about God hating gays or whatever. I…I thought inmate Milkovich was a good kid who deserved a break. He kept himself out of trouble and he helped other inmates…’

‘Helped other inmates how?’ Susan King asked and Walsh flushed slightly. 

‘Other inmates who were being targeted for their…preferences. I’ve known of several instances where inmate Milkovich has stepped in, helped someone out.’ 

Mickey thought of Jaxon, small and helpless on the floor of the shower.

‘There are several character references from other inmates in the file,’ Arthur said. ‘They mention specifically Mr Milkovich’s tenancy to stand up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves.’

Susan King nodded. She looked at Walsh again. 

‘You reported the incident straight away? Against another guard?’

Walsh nodded. 

‘I did.’ He looked at Mickey. ‘It was the right thing to do. I should have done something sooner.’

Mickey held his gaze and gave the smallest nod of his head. Walsh nodded back, just enough and Mickey knew they understood one another. 

‘Is there anything you’d like to add, Officer Walsh?’

‘Mickey was a good inmate. All his records are in the file. I strongly support his request for parole.’

Mickey wondered if Arthur had drilled the line into them all before they came to speak for him. It made something wide and heavy open up in him when he thought about it like that. They had come to speak for him. He swallowed hard as Walsh was dismissed. He watched Susan King lean towards the man to her left and mutter something. 

‘We will take a brief break,’ she said to the room. ‘Mr Dennis, will your client be speaking today?’

Arthur looked at Mickey. Mickey hesitated. He could hear the collected breathing of the people behind him. He gave a quick sharp nod. Arthur smiled slightly. 

‘Yes, Ms King,’ Arthur said. ‘He will.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this fic has been sporadically updated, to say the least! It's been a strange few months. Life, eh? But I really, genuinely mean it when I say I appreciate every single person reading and commenting. I'm just finding my feet and it's not been so smooth at points but you've all made it a fab time so far and I absolutely thank you! It might take me a minute but this story is going to get told and I hope you stick with it :)


	18. Loud Enough to Make it Heard

Ian watched Walsh guide Mickey out of the side door followed by Arthur. His leg bounced jerkily up and down. Ana rested her hand on his knee. 

‘Hey,’ she said, leaning into him. ‘It’s okay. It’s going well. It’s going how Arthur said it would.’

Ian bit his lip. 

‘I know,’ he said but his voice felt tight. 

‘Ian,’ Sarah said softly from beside him. He looked at her, knowing she recognised the tight, anxious set of his face. ‘What are you feeling?’

Ian took a deep, shuddering breath. 

‘It’s just…it’s just really horrible,’ he said quietly and then instantly felt stupid. ‘I mean, horrible isn’t even close to the right word. But for Mickey…his life…’

Sarah rested her hand on Ian’s clenched fist and squeezed lightly. 

‘It is horrible. It’s horrible and unfair and difficult to listen to when it’s about someone you care about but this is hopefully going to help to improve life for Mickey.’

‘It gets better?’ Ian huffed out a small laugh and forced his hands to uncurl. 

‘Yeah,’ a voice from behind him said. A fist cuffed him on the shoulder, just on the edge of too hard. Iggy leaned into the gap between Ian and Sarah. He was grinning. ‘Like one of those adverts for fa…’ he stopped himself, glancing guiltily at Ian, ‘Erm, you know, gay people or whatever.’

‘For fucks sake, Iggy,’ Mandy said, shoving her brother hard. ‘What do you know about those adverts?’

Ian grinned as Iggy rubbed his shoulder and glared at Mandy. 

‘I seen them,’ he said, slouching back into his seat. 

Mandy rolled her eyes. 

‘Whatever.’ She glanced at Ian and flashed him a quick grin that was so like Mickey’s that something in Ian ached. ‘It’s going okay. There’s so much shit stuff being said that something’s got to make them see Mickey needs to be away from Terry.’ She glanced away and Ian noted, not for the first time, that prolonged eye contact didn’t come naturally to the Milkovich kids. Or maybe it had all been knocked out of them. 

‘You okay?’ he asked. He’d spent time with Mandy over the last week, getting her to sit down with Sarah and speak to Arthur, and he’d quickly realised that he liked Mandy Milkovich and her brash, quick brain and easy smirk. She obviously felt the same quick connection. They’d been sitting on the Milkovich couch, her feet flung casually over his legs as they talked about the best way to get Mickey out, when she’d prodded him in the stomach with her socked foot. 

‘So, you like a hundred percent gay? No chance of, you know…’ She’d circled her thumb and finger and used her other hand to demonstrate, her tongue pushed into her cheek, smirking. 

Ian had laughed and shook his head. 

‘Sorry,’ he’d said, taking her foot and massaging it lightly. ‘One hundred percent gay. Also one hundred percent into your brother.’

He’d laughed again when she’d thrown her head back dramatically against the arm of the sofa and presented her other foot to be rubbed while sighing in elaborate disappointment.

‘That’s so unfair. Mickey gets all the luck.’ She’d looked at him, eyes shining bright under heavy black makeup. ‘You got any brothers?’ 

He’d made a quick decision to never introduce her to Lip. He liked her way too much for that. 

She looked down now, biting her lip. Iggy gently pushed her with his shoulder. 

‘Did real fuckin’ good, Mands,’ he said and she pushed her shoulder back at him. 

‘You really did, Mandy,’ Sarah said and Mandy glanced up. ‘I’m incredibly proud of the way you comported yourself up there.’ 

Mandy flushed slightly and gave a quick jerky nod. Iggy was frowning. 

‘Fuck’s comported?’ he asked and Sarah smiled. 

‘It means behaved.’

Iggy rolled his eyes. 

‘Fuckin’ say behaved them,’ he muttered and Mandy kicked out at his ankle but Sarah smiled more widely. 

‘I’m really pleased you came today, Iggy,’ she said and Ian watched his head drop in embarrassment. The way he rubbed the back of his neck was just like Mickey. 

‘Whatever. Mick always…’ he hesitated, seemingly unsure how to express his feelings about his younger brother. He scowled. ‘Mick woulda done the same for me.’

Mandy nodded. 

‘Yeah, he would have.’

Ian glanced at the door again as it opened but there was no Mickey, just Walsh glancing round. He spotted Ian and gave a quick jerk of his head. Ian pointed to himself and Walsh nodded. 

‘Back in a second,’ he said and squeezed past Ana to make his way over. Fiona, sitting across the small aisle with a band of Gallaghers and Balls smiled at him, flashed him a quick thumbs up. Ian made his way over to Walsh. ‘Everything okay?’

Walsh nodded. He’d looked pale sitting in front of the parole board but his cheeks were flushed now and he looked relieved to be done with his part. 

‘Mr Dennis asked if you wanted to see Mickey?’ 

Ian’s heart leaped into his throat. He was nodding before he’d even really processed the question. 

‘Yeah. Yes, please,’ he said and Walsh grinned. 

‘You being his counsellor and all that,’ Walsh said and Ian smiled, feeling himself flush slightly. 

‘Yeah, because of that,’ he said and Walsh pushed the door open. Arthur was standing in the corridor, staring down at a sheaf of paper. He looked up as Walsh and Ian approached. 

‘It’s going well, I think,’ he said. ‘I’m very cautiously optimistic.’ 

‘Cautiously?’ Ian asked and Arthur smiled slightly. 

‘No counting chickens,’ he said and reached forward to give Ian’s arm a light pat. ‘We have a few minutes. I thought it might help Mickey to get a fresh perspective on the idea of him giving testimony today.’

‘He doesn’t want to do it?’ Ian asked. He’d been worried that might happen. The idea of Mickey on the stand, all eyes on him, waiting for him to reveal the hidden parts of himself, had been stopping Ian sleeping. He could only imagine how it felt for Mickey. 

’No, he is open to the idea,’ Arthur said. ‘It’s just sometimes helpful to be reminded of…well, of what the benefits could be of getting parole.’ He smiled softly and Walsh grinned. Ian huffed a laugh. 

‘More than happy to remind him of that,’ Ian said and Walsh moved to unlock the door. Ian put his hand on his arm before he could and Walsh glanced back, frowning slightly. ‘Thank you,’ Ian said and Walsh glanced away, shrugging slightly. 

‘Like I said, it was the right thing to do.’ He unlocked the door. 

Mickey looked up as the door opened and Ian felt like he’d missed a step in the dark. He hadn’t been this close to Mickey in over a week. He greedily looked at every part of him as he took the seat across the table and sat down. Mickey was staring back just as intently. Ian heard Walsh close the door. He waited for it to click closed and then put his hands on the table, reaching slightly forward. He wasn’t expecting Mickey to reach back but he needed to be closer to him. Mickey glanced at his hands, a slight look of panic on his face, and then quickly back up at Ian. 

‘Hi,’ Ian said and his voice was softer than he’d expected. ‘It is so good to see you.’ 

Mickey’s gaze flicked over Ian’s face, over his hands on the table and back to his face. He gave a jerky nod. 

‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice slightly raspy. ‘You too.’

Ian could feel himself grinning. 

‘You look good,’ he said and Mickey scoffed. ‘You do, Mick.’

‘Couldn’ta looked worse than last time you saw me,’ he said, fidgeting with the neck of his shirt and shrugging. ‘Arthur got me shower access and all that shit. First impressions, right?’

‘Right,’ Ian said. ‘First impressions are good. I mean, it worked for me.’ Mickey’s eyes flicked up and Ian smiled. ‘Made a really good first impression then.’ 

Mickey glanced down but not before Ian saw the slight quirk of his mouth. Ian smiled wider. They sat there for a second, Mickey’s knee bouncing under the table. 

‘How you doing?’ Ian asked after a few beats. Mickey shrugging again. Ian waited. ‘Mick?’

Mickey flicked his eyes quickly over Ian. 

‘Asking as a shrink or as a…?’ Mickey asked, letting the sentence hang. 

‘Both, I guess. I’ve been worried about you.’

Mickey bit his bottom lip, knee movingly jerkily up and down. He shrugged again. 

‘Don’t know. I mean…listening to Mandy. She shouldn’ta had to…’ He trailed off again. 

‘She wanted to,’ Ian said, quietly. ‘I went to see her.’ Mickey’s head jerked up. ‘I went to talk to her after I saw you in solitary. I wanted to see if I could get some background, help make the case for getting you away from…getting you out of here.’ 

‘Away from my dad?’

‘Yeah. Seeing you in that cell. Mickey…’ Ian stretched his hands slightly closer. ‘I couldn’t stand it. Needed to do something. So, I went to talk to her and I told her about what had happened and she wanted to help, wanted to stand up for you.’

Mickey flushed, fidgeted slightly. 

‘You tell her about…about…’ He gestured between himself and Ian. Ian took a breath. 

‘She guessed. I’m not…’ Ian paused. ‘Turns out I’m not very good at hiding how I feel about you.’

Mickey made a noise like the air being pushed out of him, his hands twitching in his lap.

‘How you feel about me?’ he asked and then he was looking at Ian, meeting his gaze across the table, and his eyes were wide and Ian wanted to touch him so badly. 

‘Yeah, Mick. How I feel about you.’ Mickey was biting his lip again and Ian felt that heady sense of certainty that had been sweeping over him in waves all week. ‘How I’ve felt about you since you walked into my office,’ Ian said, not looking away. Mickey looked unsure, nervous. He shuffled in his seat. Ian waited.

‘Even after everything,’ Mickey said suddenly, inclining his head towards the door. ‘All of that stuff?’

Ian frowned slightly. 

‘Mickey, there’s hasn’t been one thing that’s been said out there that’s changed what I think of you. Except to remind me how strong you are.’ Mickey looked skeptical. ‘I’m serious, Mick. Nothing I’m hearing is changing how I feel about you.’

‘So, feeling like…’ Mickey hesitated. ‘That’s like what?’ 

Mickey looked uncertain. Ian took a deep breath and then pushed out of his chair. Mickey’s eyes tracked him as he stepped round the table, swallowing hard as Ian stood next to him.

‘Stand up for a second,’ Ian said softly and Mickey seemed to be moving before he could stop himself, the chair scraping backwards. He turned slightly and then Ian was reaching out, wrapping Mickey in his arms and pushing his face into the side of his neck. Mickey smelt like the prison soap and cigarette smoke and something deeper in his skin that Ian wanted to spend the rest of his life smelling.

Slowly, carefully, Mickey’s arms moved, circling Ian’s waist, and then they were clinging tightly to one another, breathing each other in.

‘Fuck, Mickey,’ Ian breathed into his skin. ‘I don’t even know how to tell you how I feel. How incredible I think you are. I just…fuck, I need you to get out of here and I need…I mean, I want…god, I want you and this and…’

Mickey’s arms tightened slightly as Ian struggled to explain everything he was feeling and he said something too quietly for Ian to hear. 

‘What?’ Ian said, pulling back a little until there was the smallest amount of distance between them, just enough to let him angle his face to look at Mickey’s. ‘Say that again.’ 

Mickey twitched and Ian tightened his hold slightly. Mickey’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip and his gaze flicked up to Ian’s. 

‘I said…’ He looked worried. Ian waited.

‘You can tell me, Mick. You can tell me anything.’

‘I said, nobody’s ever wanted…I mean, I guess no one’s ever really wanted me before, needed me or whatever.’

Ian had promised himself he wouldn’t cry. He’d promised himself he was going to stay strong for Mickey, supportive and strong and there for him. But Mickey’s face, the matter of fact way he was saying it, as if no one wanting him was just a fact of life, was too much. Ian could feel the tears, knew that Mickey could feel the hitch in his chest. He let go of Mickey, who jerked, a panicked expression on his face, as if he was worried Ian was letting him go permanently. Instead he reached up and placed his hands on either side of Mickey’s face, holding him firmly but gently, forcing him to tilt his face upwards, forcing him to look at Ian. Mickey’s lip was in his teeth again. Ian took a shuddering deep breath. 

‘Mickey Milkovich,’ he said and Mickey’s eyes were wide and Ian felt like he’d never said anything as important as this. ‘I have never wanted anyone or anything like this in my entire life. I…fuck, Mick, you’re all I can think about and when you get out of here I want…Mick, I want everything.’ He took another breath. ‘I want everything with you. I think…I mean, I know…Mick, I’m falling in love with you.’ Mickey’s breath hitched, his head jerking slightly in Ian’s hands. Ian forced himself not to let go. ‘Is that…is that okay?’

Mickey stared at him and Ian made himself to wait, made himself be quiet, let Mickey process what he was saying. He wanted Mickey, he was falling in love with him, and he didn’t know what he was going to do if Mickey didn’t feel even a tiny bit of what Ian felt. But Mickey’s life had been filled with people telling him how to feel and Ian wasn’t going to add his name to that list. So he held Mickey’s face and he waited. 

Mickey breathed out slowly and then his hands were covering Ian’s and his fingers were sliding into the spaces between Ian’s, intertwining their fingers, holding Ian there. He pulled the side of his lower lip into his mouth and then his gaze moved deliberately over Ian’s face, across his eyes, along his nose, catching on his mouth and then back up. 

‘I feel that too,’ he said and it was clear and simple and direct and Ian’s laugh was short and surprised and then Mickey’s mouth was on him, soft and hot and persistent and Ian was kissing him back, slowly and thoroughly, pushing him gently against the wall and holding him there with his mouth. Mickey opened under him and Ian licked into him, letting his lips lift and fall across Mickey’s, kissing his top lip and then his bottom, catching it lightly with his teeth. Mickey moaned, a low noise in his throat, and Ian pushed forward before pulling himself back. They were breathing hard and Ian let his forehead drop on to Mickey’s, felt Mickey’s hot breath on his chin. 

They stood there, Ian’s hards still cradling Mickey’s face. Mickey’s hands had dropped, clenching themselves at Ian’s hips, gripping his shirt. Ian leaned forward and let himself gently kiss Mickey once before he pulled away. He let his lips brush over Mickey’s and then he dropped another kiss next to his mouth, one over his cheekbone, one on the soft skin under his ear. He let him mouth hover there. 

‘I want you so much, Mick,’ he breathed and he felt Mickey shudder under his hands. ‘Going to show you when you get out.’ 

Mickey’s hand squeezed at his sides. 

‘Yeah?’ he breathed out and Ian nodded. 

‘Yeah.’

‘Shit.’

Ian pulled back and looked him. Mickey’s looked flushed and worried. Ian frowned. 

‘What? What’s wrong?’

Mickey squirmed slightly. 

‘Fuckin’ going to have to go back out there with a fuckin’ half chubb, man.’

Ian blinked at him before laughing, a single loud bark. Mickey smirked, tongue flicking out again and Ian ducked down and pressed a hard, fast kiss to his smiling mouth. He pulled back, smiling.

‘Need me to talk about things to make it go away, naked nuns or whatever?’ Ian said.

Mickey frowned.

‘Gross. You got some fuckin’ Catholic kink bullshit or something, Gallagher? Too much Sunday School?’

Ian grinned. 

‘How’d you know I was Catholic?’

Mickey raised an eyebrow and Ian pushed another quick kiss on to his mouth. Mickey grinned when he pulled away. 

‘Pale ginger kid called Gallagher? Doesn’t take a fuckin’ genius.’

‘Well, how about I pray that hard on away?’ Ian said, still smiling. Mickey snorted.

‘Man, I’m gunna need more than fuckin’ God if you don’t get your giant ass off me and stop kissin’ me every minute. Got to go back out there soon.’

Ian smirked before leaning in for one more quick, firm kiss. Mickey rolled his eyes and Ian held his hands up in defeat. 

‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘But just so you know I’m going to make sure I do that all the time when you’re out.’

Mickey ran a hand through his hair. 

‘We’ll never get anything else done, man.’

Ian shrugged. 

‘I’m okay with that,’ he said with a grin and Mickey smirked. 

‘So,’ he said, ‘Guess I better talk good out there, make sure I get out for all these plans you’ve got.’

Ian stared at him, at the easy smirk on Mickey’s face, at the relaxed eyebrows and laughing blue eyes. 

‘I’m really proud of you, Mickey,’ he said before he could stop himself. 

Mickey froze. 

‘Fuck for?’ he said, expression wary. ‘I haven’t even done anything yet.’

Ian shrugged. 

‘You’ve done plenty. And whatever happens after this, while you’re up there I want you to know I’m proud of you.’

Mickey shifted slightly from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He shrugged.

‘Whatever, man. We’ll see what happens.’

Ian smiled and before Mickey could stop him ducked in to kiss him again. Mickey’s hands shot out to hold Ian by the bottom of his shirt, immediately kissing back, an edge of desperate need underlaying the hot press of lips. 

Ian pulled away and bumped their foreheads, smiling softly. 

‘You’re gunna do so good,’ he said quietly. 

Mickey breathed in once, twice, and then nodded. 

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, smiling slightly as Walsh knocked on the door. Mickey gently pushed Ian away. Ian let himself step back. Mickey squared his shoulders and took a breath. ’Let’s just get this the fuck over with.’ 

 

************************

 

‘Mr Milkovich?’

Mickey looked up from his clenched hands. Susan King was staring at him, eyebrows slightly raised. 

‘Yeah?’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to keep the aggressive bite out of it. 

‘You understand that as well as your lawyer questioning you we may also ask you questions?’ 

Mickey just about stopped himself shrugging and nodded instead. 

‘Yeah, I understand.’ He fidgeted slightly, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He’d thought about just focusing on the idea of Ian looking at him but that just made him feel hot and anxious, worried he was going to mess up any chance he might have of getting out. He settled for staring at his hands. 

‘You may begin, Mr Dennis,’ Susan King said and Mickey let himself glance at Arthur. He was smiling slightly at Mickey. 

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Mickey, I wonder if we could start with the most recent incident that occurred with your father? The attack in the library. Was you father involved in a physical sense?’

Mickey took a steady breath and shrugged. 

‘Not much. I mean, a few kicks, couple of punches. I erm…I spat some blood at him and he kind of lost it but mostly no. He…I guess he organised it so he wouldn’t have to be involved. Let someone else hang.’

‘I see. Can I ask do you fear for your safety if you were placed back into the system with your father?’

Mickey felt his lips quirk in a humourless smile.

‘Yeah, I fear for my safety but that’s not exactly new.’

‘What do you mean?’ Susan King asked and Mickey glanced at her. She was watching him closely. 

‘I guess…I guess I’ve never really been safe or whatever,’ Mickey said. 

‘In prison?’ she asked.

Mickey shrugged. 

‘Anywhere.’

‘Can you explain what you mean, Mickey?’ Arthur asked.

Mickey opened and closed his fists and risked a glance at Ian. He was staring at Mickey, expression serious but eyes soft when they met Mickey’s. Mickey rubbed his lip with his thumb and shrugged again. 

‘It’s like Mandy said, my dad didn’t like me. He…I tried, you know, when I was little. Did all the shit he asked me to, tried to be just like him but…but I think he knew that…’ Mickey fidgeted and glanced at Ian again. He glanced back at Susan King. ‘I think he knew I was different…gay or whatever and….and just not like him and he tried to make me do shit, told me he was showing me how to be a real man or whatever, toughen me up…fix me.’

The room was silent. Mickey took a breath and Arthur let the silence hold for a few beats. 

‘Did you want to be fixed?’ Arthur asked. 

Mickey huffed out a laugh. They’d talk about this while Arthur was preparing him for questions, about what Mickey wanted. Mickey hadn’t known the answer then either. 

‘I wanted…I wanted not to be different,’ he said and shrugged. ‘Wanted not to be afraid of being fuckin’ found out all the time.’ 

‘But he found you out?’ Arthur’s voice was serious and Mickey knew he wanted him to talk about the attack in the alley. His breath caught slightly in his throat. His hands clenched harder in his lap. 

‘Mickey?’ Arthur said and Mickey glanced at him. Ian’s face swam in the seat beyond the table, brow creased in concern. Mickey swallowed. 

‘Yeah. Yeah, he found out. I got sloppy, I guess, and he caught me with…he caught me.’ Mickey felt like he was breathing hard. 

‘The report of the incident is in the file we prepared. All the details, including police reports and medical records can be found in there,’ Arthur said and Mickey took a few steadying deep breaths. ‘After the incident, Mickey, you confessed to a series of incidents, one of which led to your incarceration. Why did you do that?’

Mickey shrugged. 

‘Safer in here than out there. My dad was out there and he…I knew he was going to kill me. I did the shit that got me thrown in here.’ He glanced at Susan King. ‘I ain’t going to sit here and say I’m wrongfully imprisoned or whatever. I did bad shit.’

‘Mickey,’ Arthur said, a slight warning note to his voice but Susan King held up her hand. 

‘Continue, Mr Milkovich,’ she said and Mickey glanced guilty at Arthur. 

‘Just…I did a lot of shit. Some of it because my dad was into it and I was running all his shit. Some of it ‘cause I needed to put food on the table or try and keep the fuckin’ lights on.’

‘Where’s your mother?’ Susan King asked. 

‘Dead,’ Mickey said and she raised her eyebrows. ‘Drugs.’ He glanced at Mandy and Iggy, both of whom had the same closed expression on their faces. They’d learnt that expression at Terry’s knee, at his closed fist; reveal nothing, express nothing, stop being a little pussy. He glanced at Ian, whose face couldn’t have been closed if his life had depending on it. He took another breath. ’She…she wasn’t a bad mom,’ he said, shifting in his seat. ‘But she wasn’t around so we had to do what we had to do.’

‘You’re the youngest brother, is that right?’ Arthur asked and Mickey nodded. ‘Where were your older brothers?’

Mickey shrugged. 

‘They were around. Or in juvie. Sometimes it was just me and Mandy.’

‘And you paid the bills? Provided the food?’

Mickey bit his lip. 

‘I tried.’ 

‘Did child services ever get involved?’

‘Couple of times but only when I was too little to stop it.’

‘Why would you want to stop it?’

Mickey frowned at him. 

‘You ever been in a group home?’ 

Arthur shook his head and Mickey huffed a laugh. 

‘Lucky you. They didn’t need to be in that shit.’

‘They didn’t?’ Susan King said and Mickey frowned. 

‘What?’

‘You said ‘they didn’t need to be in that shit’. What about you?’

Mickey shrugged. 

‘I don’t know. I mean, yeah it was shit for all of us but I didn’t want Mandy in one of those places and…I don’t know, I could make it work.’

‘You could keep everyone together?’ she asked and Mickey nodded. 

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s very admirable, Mr Milkovich.’ 

Mickey flinched slightly in the chair and Arthur’s eyebrows raised. Mickey shrugged. 

‘Fuckin’ family, right. They were just little kids,’ he said and she nodded slowly. 

‘As indeed were you,’ she said, making a note on her pad. ‘Continue, Mr Dennis.’

‘Mickey, if you were to get out on parole do you believe you are a danger to society?’ Arthur asked.

They’d talked about this as well, Arthur had coached him on an answer, but Mickey suddenly found the words were dry in his throat. He knew if he said them the way Arthur wanted they’d sound forced and he didn’t think Susan King was going to buy that kind of talk. 

‘Mickey?’ Arthur prompted. 

‘I think…’ he said slowly and Arthur frowned. He was supposed to start with simply saying no. Mickey looked at his hands and then at Susan King. He made himself meet her steady gaze. ‘I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make me come back in here,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be in here. I don’t want that life.’

Arthur opened his mouth but Susan King beat him to it. 

‘What kind of life do you want, Mr Milkovich?’

Mickey fidgeted. 

‘I want…’ He glanced at Ian and then looked back at the parole board. ‘I want to be free.’

‘Free from prison?’ Susan King asked and Mickey shook his head before shrugging. 

‘I mean, yeah, I want to be free from prison. But I get that I did shit and I need to do my time or whatever. I want to feel…’ he swallowed hard. ‘I want to feel free. I don’t want to live like that any more.’

‘Like what?’ Susan King asked. 

‘Scared,’ Mickey said. He looked at Mandy and Iggy. ‘Afraid.’ He looked at Ian. ‘Alone.’ He looked back Susan King. ‘I want a life that means I get to be…get to be free.’ 

There was a long stretch of silence and Mickey fidgeted slightly. Maybe he hadn’t explained it well enough. He didn’t know how to explain the differences he wanted in his life, how small it had always been, narrowed by need. There was no space for want. Every minute was about surviving. Mickey didn’t want to just survive anymore. He opened his mouth to try and explain but Susan King was leaning in to speak to the man on her left. Mickey glanced at Arthur who was watching her. She nodded and then turned back. 

‘Mr Dennis, is there anything else your client would like to add?’ 

‘Mickey,’ Arthur said and Mickey glanced at him. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to say?’

Mickey glanced at his hands, bit the inside of his mouth. He almost shook his head but then shrugged. 

‘I’m not…I’m not going win citizen of the year,’ he said and he heard Iggy snort out a laugh. He kept his eyes down. ‘I’m not. But,’ he looked up and stared at the parole board in turn, ending on Susan King. ‘But when I get out I’m going to try. I’ve got shit I want to do,’ he said and then he looked at Ian, made sure to keep looking at him. ‘I’ve got shit to lose.’ Ian smiled so widely that his eyes crinkled at the corner. Mickey looked back at Susan King. ‘So, I promise I’m going to try and I swear I’m not fuckin’ coming back here. I’m not…I’m not my dad.’ 

She stared at him, watching him closely, before giving a single nod. 

‘Thank you, Mr Milkovich,’ she said. ‘Mr Dennis, your final remarks?’

Arthur shuffled the papers on the table in front of him before straightening. 

‘I believe the files the board has been presented with, combined with the testimony we heard today, are strong enough to grant Mr Milkovich emergency parole. I hope that the board can appreciate the support system Mr Milkovich has. This includes members of the community who are present today,’ he gestured to the left side of the room, where a mixed group of people Mickey had never seen before stood as one. ‘These community members are here as representative of the neighbour Mr Milkovoich would return to and they strongly support his parole.’

Mickey frowned. A brown haired woman smiled at him and a ginger girl who looked oddly familiar winked. A tall guy, hair pulled back, flashed him a quick thumbs up.

‘All those in this room support Mr Milkovoich’s parole,’ Arthur said and the rest of the room stood. Ian was holding Mandy’s hand over the back of the chairs. ‘We hope the parole board will carefully consider the safety of Mr Milkovich and the man that he could become if the board are willing to consider his case. We thank you for your time today.’ He folded his hands in front of him and stood with the rest of the room. Mickey blinked, overwhelmed by the strange feelings that were washing over him. 

Susan King looked impassively over the standing figures and then finally looked back to Mickey. Mickey tried not to flinch. 

‘We will discuss the case and you will be informed,’ she said finally. ‘As I said at the start this parole hearing, the decision is being fast tracked due to safety concerns. While we finalise a decision you will remain in solitary holding for your own safety.’

Mickey nodded, standing as Walsh made his way over. He put his hands out to be cuffed. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Ian, didn’t want to have to watch him Mickey was taken away. Walsh started to lead him towards the door. 

‘Mr Milkovich,’ Susan King said and Walsh stopped. Mickey looked at her. Closer she was younger than he was expecting, face tired but eyes kinder than they’d seemed. She waited a beat and Mickey made him self hold her gaze. ‘Good luck, Mickey,’ she said and he nodded. 

‘Thank you,’ he said and her mouth twitched slightly. Walsh pulled lightly on his cuffs and Mickey gave her another quick nod.

He nearly didn’t look back but his head was moving before he could stop it, turning to meet Ian’s steady, clear gaze as the door swung closed behind him, clicking shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing okay in the current world madness and that everyone is healthy and safe. I am in the second week of a 14 day isolation after getting back from mainland Europe to the UK and developing flu like symptoms. I'm in no danger, thankfully, but I am now quarantined and have certainly felt ropey. However, as I feel much better than I did last week I'm hoping to be able to write my way out into the world. So, though I'm whispering it rather than shouting it, I'm planning on writing as much I can and I really hope I can add lots to this story. 
> 
> As always thank you for reading. Stay healthy, stay safe and sending positive thoughts around the globe as we face this strange new reality together.


	19. And Breathe...

‘How you doing, sweetie?’ Fiona asked. She rested her hand on his head, scrunching her fingers into his hair in the same way she’d been doing since he was a child. He let his head fall forward onto his folded hands and she squeezed the back of his neck lightly. He huffed into the table top and closed his eyes. 

‘I don’t know,’ he said and it was true. It had been days since the parole hearing and he’d known it wasn’t a quick process, he’d known Mickey was going to be in solitary and wouldn’t have phone access, he’d known they’d have to wait. He’d know all of that and it didn’t matter at all because all he’d been able to do since the door had swung closed behind Mickey had been to stare at his phone and wait. 

Paul had come back to work part time, fire reignited by the effort to help Mickey, and Ian had taken a few days holiday. He’d skipped two days of college, sending message to professors full of explanations involving family emergencies. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to listen to an entire song. He’d been on endless runs, pounding round his neighbourhood just killing time. He felt worried, listless and anxious all in the same breath. Finally Fiona had coaxed his over with the promise of family distractions but Liam was out with his friends and Debbie was at work so he was left resting his head on his hands at the pitted and worn table, just waiting. 

‘You checked in with Sarah?’

Ian nodded into his arms. 

‘Every day,’ he said. He knew this was obsessive behaviour but he’d discussed it with her and she was of the opinion that it was justifiable craziness rather than his own special brand, though she hadn’t worded it quite like that. ‘Ana too.’

Ana was at work and she’d promised to keep him updated, though there was nothing to update him with. He huffed again and lifted his head. 

‘I might go for a run round the block,’ he said and Fiona raised her eyebrows. ‘What?’ 

‘Didn’t you already run today?’ 

Ian rolled his eyes. 

‘I feel like I’m itching out of my skin,’ he said and she smiled softly. 

‘I know but there’s nothing to do but wait and you literally running yourself into the ground isn’t going to help.’ She leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘Plus, if Mickey gets out you’re going to need to be in good form,’ she said, her smile turning wicked. ‘Right?’

Ian managed a grin. 

‘When,’ he said. 

‘Huh?’

‘When Mickey gets out. You said if.’

She gazed at him for a beat, head slightly tilted. 

‘Could be a year,’ she said softly. 

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Ian said. ‘A week, a year, two years. I don’t care how long it takes.’

‘That’s a long time to wait.’

He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, shrugging. 

‘I know you think it’s fast, I know the situation isn’t…normal but, Fi, this is it for me. Mickey is it.’

She bit her lip and he waited. 

‘You’ve done so well, Ian,’ she said finally. ‘You’ve really made something of yourself, you’re really making something of your life. I’m so proud of you, how you’re managing…everything,’ she said, delicately stepping round his disorder. ‘But…’

‘Mickey’s not going to stop any other that,’ he said, unable to stop himself interrupting. ‘This isn’t some bi polar decision. This isn’t that.’ He could hear the anger in his voice and took a deep breath when Fiona held her hands up. 

‘Hey, you want to let me finish before you come at me?’ she asked, eyebrows raised. He rolled his eyes and unclenched his fists before nodding. 

‘Yeah, sorry,’ he said and she smiled. 

‘What I was going to say is that I’m really proud of what you’ve achieved, how you’re living your life, but…’ she paused and Ian frowned slightly. She just smiled softly at him. ‘But there’s this whole part of you that I’ve missed.’ She stepped forward as he stared at her in confusion, resting her hand on his face and looking at him so fondly that he felt tears clogging in his throat. ‘You were my beautiful carefree boy, full of plans and life and schemes.’ He blinked up at her and she stroked his cheek. ‘And then it go a bit muddy and we lost you for a while and when you came back you were you but you were more careful, always holding something back. Watching you go to the mat for Mickey, watching you talk about Mickey…Ian, it’s so amazing to watch.’ She squeezed his face slightly. ‘You deserve to be happy. You deserve the whole world.’

Ian dropped the weight of his head into her palm and she held him there while he held back tears. 

‘Love you,’ he said after a few moments and her hand twitched convulsively. He looked up at her. Her eyes were full of tears and when he stood she opened her arms and held him tightly. 

‘God, you have no idea, kid,’ she said and squeezed him tightly. 

The backdoor swung open and Liam walked in, eyebrows raised at the two of them hugging. 

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Who died?’

Fiona laughed and reached a hand out to grab at him, not letting go of Ian. 

‘No one died. Come here,’ she said and dragged him towards them. Ian unfolded one of his arms and flung it around Liam’s shoulders, engulfing him into the hug. Liam let himself be held for a moment before wiggling uncomfortably. 

‘What the fuck is happening?’ he asked, face muffled again Ian. 

‘Family hug,’ Ian said and he could almost feel Liam rolling his eyes. ‘Shut up and enjoy it.’ He squeezed tighter and felt Liam relax slightly into him. They stood there for a few seconds before Liam pulled away. Ian tried to pull him back in. ‘Nope, not done yet,’ he said but Liam skipped out of his way, pointing at the table. 

‘Your phone’s ringing,’ he said and Ian whipped round so quickly he felt the muscles in his neck protest. His phone screen was flashing with an unknown number. He snatched it up and, hands shaking, slid the screen to answer it. He pressed it to his ear. 

‘Hello?’ His voice was quiet. ‘Hello,’ he said again.

There were several beats of just breathing before someone clicked their tongue down the line. 

‘You really fucked up on the welcome party, Gallagher. I ain’t even seen one fuckin’ balloon,’ Mickey said and all of Ian’s breath left him in a single sob. He could hear Mandy in the background as he dropped down into the nearest chair.

‘The fuck you yelling at him for? That how you say hello to people?’ she shouted and Ian gave a shaky laugh as Mickey seemed to hold the phone slightly away from his mouth. 

‘No one asked you to fuckin’ listen in,’ he yelled and then he was huffing moodily down the phone. Ian felt unsteady and frantically happy, just on the very edge of holding it all together. 

‘Mickey,’ he said and Fiona gave a quiet gasp beside him. Liam’s eyebrows went up. ‘Mick?’

‘Yeah?’

Ian’s laugh was a single bright bark of delight. He dug his fingers into his thigh. Mickey breathed down the line. 

‘Mick,’ he said again just because he could. ‘Where are you?’ 

There was a moment of silence and Ian’s heart was pounding in his chest.

‘Home,’ Mickey said finally and the grin was obvious in his voice. ‘I’m at home, Gallagher. You wanna come check?’

 

***********************

 

The days had bled together as Mickey had waited in his cell. He’d chewed his nails down the skin. The painful, inert hours he’d spent holed up after the attack had morphed into a frantic panicked energy. He’d spent hours pacing his cell. He’d used the metal bunk to foot pushups and run endlessly through the workout routines he’d learned over his years of being forced to move in small spaces. The aches and injuries were healing and he wanted the space to move, the space to stretch. He wanted to be out of this cell, out of this prison. 

He wanted Ian. 

He thought about him constantly, about the way his body had pinned him to the wall, held him firmly by the mouth and just kissed him. Mickey had never known kissing could feel like that, like you belonged to another person and they belonged to you, like you were talking to each other without saying anything. It made something inside him ache every time he thought about it. 

He heaved himself to his feet and began his circuit of exercises again. He was halfway through a sets of crunches when keys clanked in the lock. He stood quickly, arms at his sides, waiting in the middle of the cell. The door swung open and a guard he knew by sight stood there. There was an envelope in his hands. Mickey swallowed but stayed still. 

‘Milkovich?’ the C.O said and Mickey nodded. ‘Parole board decision.’ He handed the letter over. It was already open, the top slit and the letter shoved clumsily back in. Mickey’s hands were steady as he reached for it. 

He didn’t let himself pause, just pulled the letter out and scanned the first few lines. Disjointed words jumped out at him: careful consideration, serious personal harm, no threat to society, parole granted. 

Mickey read the last bit again. Parole granted. It was there in bold printed letters. He swallowed and read it again. The C.O at the door sighed and Mickey glanced up at him. 

‘Let’s go,’ he said, sounding bored. Mickey blinked at him. The C.O raised his eyebrows. ‘At this point, inmate, you’re in here voluntarily. Faster you move, faster you’re out of here.’ 

Mickey shoved the letter back in the envelope, hands shaking now. The guard jerked his head and Mickey followed him down the corridor. There was a heavy feeling in his head, a whooshing noise like he was moving under water. He forced himself to put one foot in front of the other down endless corridors, following the C.O into a room with a single table and a bench running along one wall. 

‘Wait here,’ the C.O said, closing the door behind him and Mickey stood where he found himself, feeling like he’d forgotten how to take a deep enough breath. Time seemed to judder forward and the C.O was back, a clear plastic bag in one hand and a black device in his the other. He put the bag on the desk and Mickey recognised his wallet and watch. He stared at them. There was a blood stain on the outside of the wallet. He looked away. 

‘This…’ the C.O said, holding up the black device, ‘…is an ankle monitor. Are you familiar with them?’

Mickey nodded. 

‘Ever had one?’ the C.O asked and Mickey shook his head. ‘As it said in the letter your parole is granted based on a period of six months house arrest followed by a three year probationary period. Your electronic tracker will be monitored by your parole officer. For the next six months you are to remain at your home address.’ He pulled a form out of the clear plastic bag and read off Mickey’s address. ‘That correct?’ Mickey nodded. ‘You may go to a place of work which will be organised by your parole officer. Your curfew is set to 5pm. The device must remain charged. If the device dies you will be in violation of your parole and you will be returned to prison. If you break your curfew you will be returned to prison. If you extend your area beyond the agreed upon addresses you will be returned to prison. Do you understand these requirements?’

Mickey nodded, trying to process all the information. 

‘There is a charge of $10 a day which is to be paid by you to the company detailed in your letter.’

Mickey’s head snapped up.

‘I gotta pay?’ he said.

The C.O barely glanced up from where he was adjusting the straps. 

‘The cost is subsidised by the state but there’s a $10 daily charge. It’s all in the letter.’

Mickey felt like his brain wasn’t working quickly enough. The C.O looked up at him.

‘You rather stay in here?’ he asked and Mickey shook his head. ‘Your parole officer will go through it all. Worst comes to worst, you can’t pay and you come back until the end of your sentence.’ He shrugged slightly and then reached into the plastic bag, pulling out Mickey’s battered sneakers. ‘You not come in with clothes?’ he said, puzzled. 

Mickey shook his head. 

‘Came straight from the hospital,’ he said and the C.O tutted. 

‘Wait here,’ he said and left Mickey alone again. 

Mickey swallowed. His sneakers were splattered with blood stains. He looked away. He could feel the phantom weight of the ankle monitor. He bit his lip and shook his head. He needed the monitor, he needed to get out of there. He could do six months. He dug his fingers into his palms, trying not to do the math on $10 a day for six months. His parole officer better get him a fuckin’ job quick and preferably one where he could take home fuckin’ leftovers because he was screwed otherwise. He chewed on his lip and tried to remember that he was getting out, he was going to sleep in his own bed.

He was going to see Ian. 

The door opened and the C.O thrust grey sweatpants and a white tank top at him. 

‘Get changed,’ he said and Mickey stripped quickly, dragging the new clothes on. ‘Which ankle do you want?’ the C.O asked, waving the monitor at him. Mickey shrugged. ‘Right leg on the bench.’ Mickey raised his leg and pulled the leg of the sweatpants up. The C.O clipped the monitor on and did something Mickey couldn’t quite see to attach it firmly in place. He patted it and then stepped back. Mickey stared down at it. ‘Sneakers on,’ the C.O said and Mickey complied. ‘Follow me. Grab your things.’

Mickey picked up the plastic bag and followed C.O out of the room and down another long corridor. 

‘You got money?’ the C.O asked over his shoulder and Mickey fumbled to get his wallet out of the bag. There was a twenty folded in with couple of ones. 

‘Yeah,’ he said and the C.O nodded. 

‘So, you can either call for someone to come get you, call a cab or get the bus,’ the C.O said. ‘Phone’s in the lobby, cab number’s on the wall. Bus stops just outside.’ He reached onto his belt for a set of keys and unlocked a gate and then a door a short way down the corridor. Mickey followed him through. He blinked in the sudden light of the room, which had several windows overlooking a wide concrete turning circle. Beyond several sad shrubs Mickey could see cars speeding along the road next to the prison. There was a double door with the words ‘Push to Open’.

‘Phone’s there,’ the C.O said pointing. He nodded at Mickey’s ankle monitor. ‘You’ve got an hour to get to the agreed address so don’t hang around. Good luck out there.’ He turned and then he was gone and Mickey was alone, standing in the silent lobby. 

 

************************

 

He’d taken a cab. He’d almost called Ian, the number burned into his memory after several nights of staring at it, but as he’d approached the phone he’d hesitated, feeling the heavy pull of the monitor on his ankle, the loose fit of the too big sweatpants. He felt grubby and small and as he lifted the handset he suddenly didn’t want this to be how Ian saw him for the first time outside the prison walls. He punched in the cab company number.

The ride used up most of his cash but he was standing in front his house, plastic bag gripped in his fist and the smell of the neighbourhood all around him. Someone was grilling two doors down, thick smoke weaving listlessly in the hot air. It was summer. Mickey hadn’t appreciate that inside. The seasons meant nothing in there but out here the sun was beating down and there were children yelling in the streets, throwing plastic beakers of water at one another and shrieking in delight. He closed his eyes for a second. 

‘What the fuck?’ 

His eyes snapped open and Mandy was standing on the top step, trash bag in her hand, mouth open in shock. They stared at each other for a beat and then she was running down the steps, flinging the bag towards the garbage cans and rushing towards him. He thought she was going to hug him but she stopped in front of him and punched him twice in the arm, hard. 

‘What the fuck, Mandy?’ he said, rubbing his arm and then she flung her arms around him and hugged him. She smelt like she always did and he let himself hug her back. 

‘What the fuck yourself,’ she said pulling back and hitting him again. He batted her hand away. 

‘Quit it,’ he said scowling and she laughed. 

‘Why the fuck didn’t you say you were getting out?’

He rubbed his neck. 

‘Didn’t know. Told me today, fitted my with this.’ He pulled up the sweats to show the ankle monitor. 

‘Shit,’ Mandy said and Mickey nodded. 

‘Yeah. So, fitted me with that and told me to fuck off back home.’ He shrugged. ‘So, here I am.’ 

She punched him in the arm again, grinning. 

‘What did Ian say?’ she asked and Mickey frowned, glancing away. ‘You called him right?’

He thumbed his lip and walked past her towards the house. 

‘Can I get in the fuckin’ house first?’ he asked and Mandy followed him up the steps. 

‘Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You haven’t called him? What the fuck, Mickey? He’s losing his mind waiting for news.’

Mickey’s stomach clenched and he pushed the door open.

‘You fuckin’ best friends now or something,’ he muttered and he didn’t need to be looking at Mandy to know she was rolling her eyes. 

‘Yeah, bffs. What the hell, Mick?’

The living room was as dark and cluttered as he remembered. He threw the plastic bag onto the table, an assortment of handguns and bags of powder scattered across it. 

‘Iggy’s going to have to clear this shit out before my parole officer shows up,’ he said but Mandy refused to be distracted. 

‘I can’t believe you haven’t called him,’ she said and reached into her pocket. ‘I’m going to.’

Mickey’s hand shot out and he gripped her wrist, not hard but enough to stop her. She raised her eyebrows at him, all challenge, all Mandy. 

‘Don’t,’ he said. 

‘Why the fuck not?’ she said as the front door opened and Iggy slouched in. 

‘Bro,’ he cried as he caught sight of Mickey. He raised his hand and Mickey slapped it before Iggy pulled him into a one armed hug. ‘They let you out.’

‘Yep,’ he said as Iggy let him go. ‘Gotta sort this shit out before my parole officer shows up,’ he said gesturing at the table but Iggy just grinned lazily and shrugged. 

‘What’d Ian say?’ he said and Mickey rolled his eyes. Mandy planted her hands on her hips. 

‘He hasn’t called him,’ she said and Iggy blinked at him. 

‘You get out of prison and you don’t call your boyfriend. That’s cold, man.’

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. 

‘What the fuck?’ he said as Mandy smirked at him. Iggy wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. 

‘He’s been going fuckin’ nuts waiting to hear what they decided,’ Iggy said as he dug in the fridge. ‘Want a beer?’ 

‘Do I want a…yeah, I want a fuckin’ beer,’ Mickey said, feeling dazed. Iggy went to hand it over but Mandy snatched it first. 

‘You can have it when you tell us why you haven’t called Ian,’ she said and Mickey frowned, reaching for the beer. She held it out of reach. ‘You just bullshitting him inside so you can get out?’

‘Shit that’s even fuckin’ colder,’ Iggy said, talking a mouthful of his own beer. 

‘Fuckin’…no, I’m not…’ Mickey stuttered. Mandy raised her eyebrows. ‘I wasn’t fuckin’ bullshitting him. I just…’ They both stared at him and he felt himself flush. ‘I just didn’t want him to fuckin’ see me looking like this,’ he said finally and Mandy’s eyes softened. Iggy looked confused, looking Mickey up and down. 

‘Whatd’ya mean? You look the same as fuckin’ always.’

Mickey rolled his eyes and Mandy smirked. 

‘That’s the problem, Ig,’ she said, smile wide. ‘Mickey wants to look extra special when he sees Ian.’

She laughed when he launched himself at her, dancing out of his reach, holding the beer away from herself. 

‘Mickey wants to look all pretty when he sees Ian, wants to look his best.’

Mickey growled in his throat and she laughed, delighted. 

‘Oh,’ said Iggy, watching them impassively. ‘But he already likes you so…’

Mandy rolled her eyes and finally handed Mickey his beer. She waited until he’d taken a long pull before flinging an arm around his neck, not letting him throw her off. 

‘But that’s not enough for Mickey, Ig. Not for my romantic big brother and his hot as fuck boyfriend.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Mickey muttered, feeling his face warm. ‘You done yet?’

She grinned. 

‘Nope, not even close. Got to help you get all prettied up so you can call your boyfriend.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Want me to charge the clippers?’

Mickey shrugged her off, scowling. 

‘I’m going to take a shower.’ He pointed his beer at Mandy. ‘Do not call him,’ he said and she crossed her heart before kissing her pinky finger like they used to when they were kids, grinning. He turned towards the bathroom before running a hand over his own head. ‘And get the fuckin’ clippers,’ he snapped and left her laughing as he made his way to the bathroom. 

 

*****************************

 

Ian ran. He ran so hard that when he reached the Milkovich house he was breathing so heavily he had to stop outside and stand with his hands on his knees, taking deep shuddering breaths. 

‘Wow, you sprint here?’ 

His head shot up. Mandy was sitting on the top step, staring down at her watch. 

‘Mickey owes me five dollars,’ she said, grinning at him. ‘Said you’d be here in under fifteen minutes.’

Ian’s breathing was evening out. He straightened up. 

‘How long did he reckon?’ he asked, pushing the gate open. 

Mandy shrugged. 

‘Wouldn’t say.’ She looked at him, face suddenly serious. ‘Think part of him was worried you wouldn’t show up.’

Something in Ian clenched painfully. He climbed the steps and squeezed Mandy’s knee as he got level with her. 

‘Yeah, that was never going to happen,’ he said and she smiled before her face turned serious. 

‘Don’t…’ she hesitated. ‘Don’t fuck him up. More than he already is.’ 

Ian squeezed her knee again. 

‘Not going to happen either,’ he said. He glanced at the door and his mouth felt dry. ‘He in there?’

Mandy nodded and Ian swallowed. 

‘Me and Iggy are going to go pick up some food.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘Thought we might sneak into a movie first and then take, like, a few hours to get back with the food.’

Ian huffed a laugh, his heart suddenly beating fast against his ribs. Mickey was in that house. Mickey was a thin door away from him and they had hours. They had hours and days and weeks. He swallowed again. Mandy squeezed his hand. 

‘Aye, Iggy,’ she shouted and Ian jumped. ‘Time to go.’

There were noises inside and Ian couldn’t remember how to breath. Mandy grinned and rolled her eyes. 

‘You two are fuckin’ useless,’ she said, giving him a little shove as the door opened and Iggy slouched out, a lazy grin on his face. 

’S’up, man,’ he said and Ian slapped his open palm. ‘You look fuckin’ terrified. Don’t know why you’re both being so fuckin’ weird.’

Ian swallowed again and Mandy laughed. 

‘It’s ‘cause they’re idiots in love,’ she said and Ian opened his mouth to answer but suddenly Mickey was standing in the doorway and he snapped it shut. 

‘Aye, you wanna shut the fuck up?’ he said and Mandy laughed. Mickey’s eyes tripped from Mandy to Ian and Ian’s heart stopped. Mickey looked him up and down, finally meeting his eyes. Ian felt himself stutter back to life.

Iggy and Mandy were looking between them and after a few beats of silence Mandy rolled her eyes and gave Ian another not so gentle shove. 

‘Fuckin’ weird,’ Iggy said. 

‘We’ll be back later,’ Mandy said. She grinned at Mickey. ‘Much later.’ 

Mickey gave her the finger though his eyes never left Ian. Ian could hear Mandy and Iggy moving down the steps and down the street but he was powerless to look away from Mickey. He was standing there, cigarette between his lips and Ian couldn’t move. 

His hair was different. Ian got stuck on that for too long, his eyes taking in the short sides and the thick top that he wanted to sink his fingers into. Mickey shifted and self consciously ran his hand through it. 

‘You cut your hair?’ Ian said finally and Mickey gave a slight shrug, touching his hair again. 

‘Mandy did it,’ he said and Ian nodded. Mickey fidgeted with his shirt. He was wearing a black tank top and a shirt with the arms ripped off. His arms. Ian couldn’t stop staring at his arms. They were pale, so pale, and defined. Mickey looked strong and solid.

‘All my fuckin’ clothes are from before I went inside,’ he said suddenly and Ian blinked at him. 

‘You look good,’ Ian said before he could stop himself and Mickey’s eyebrows raised. Ian smiled and risked taking a step forward. Mickey watched him carefully. ‘You look so good, Mickey.’

The corners of Mickey’s mouth quirked in an almost smile and he inclined his head slightly. 

‘You wanna come in?’ he said. 

Ian was nodding before he’d finished the question. What he really wanted was to touch him and he didn’t think Mickey was going to be okay with that on his porch in front of the entire neighbourhood. He followed him inside. His jeans were too big for him but it didn’t stop Ian watching his ass as he moved. 

‘You want a beer?’ Mickey asked, heading to the kitchen and dropping his cigarette in a saucer on the table.

‘No, I’m good.’

Mickey grabbed a beer for himself and then turned, his eyes everywhere but Ian. He looked so nervous that it was calming Ian down. Mandy was right, they were idiots. 

‘Mick,’ he breathed and Mickey looked at him, lip caught between his teeth. ‘You’re out.’

Mickey huffed a laugh and shrugged. 

‘I’m out,’ he said and Ian took a step towards him but Mickey held up his hands. Ian stopped. Mickey biting his lip, face worried. Ian’s heart faltered. ‘I’m out,’ Mickey said. ‘And that’s mostly ‘cause of you. I know you organised all that shit.’

Ian nodded slowly. 

‘Yeah, I did. Because I wanted you to get out of there.’

Mickey nodded jerkily. 

‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his neck. ‘So, like, if you’re…I don’t fuckin’ know…feeling like you gotta fuckin’ stick by me ‘cause of that I just want you to know you don’t gotta.’

Ian stared at him. 

‘Mickey, what you talking about?’

Mickey took a breath. 

‘Fuckin’ hell, Gallagher. I’m a convicted felon with a fuckin’ ankle monitor, six months house arrest and three years fuckin’ probation. I’m not…I don’t want to drag you down if you got into this shit without fuckin’ thinking it through.’

Ian’s mouth was slightly open. Mickey was frowning so much his forehead was creased. He crossed his arms, beer bottle hanging loosely in his fingers, waiting for Ian to say something. 

‘I’m just saying,’ he said finally when Ian didn’t say anything. ‘Don’t gotta do this if you don’t want to.’

There was a beat of silence and then Ian was moving. He stepped forward, into Mickey’s space, and reached for the beer bottle. Mickey was staring up at him as Ian pulled the bottle from his grip and placed it on the table. He was still biting his damn lip. Ian shook his head. 

‘You are the biggest fuckin’ idiot,’ he said and Mickey barely had his mouth open to protest before Ian was kissing him and Mickey kissed back immediately, hands flying to grip Ian’s t-shirt and bunch it into his fists. Ian let his hands drop to Mickey’s hips and hold him there. He kissed him in sharp, staccato bursts, forcing Mickey to chase him mouth, forcing him to come find his lips, his tongue. Mickey did, raising one hand to the back of Ian’s head to hold him there while he kissed him. Mickey’s fingers were hard, his lips chapped but soft and persistent. 

‘What I want,’ Ian panted between kisses, pressing his lips back to Mickey’s and then away. ‘What I want is this.’ He kissed him hard. ‘And this,’ he panted, letting his hands circle Mickey’s waist and pull him, dragging their bodies against one another. Mickey’s mouth opened in a gasp against Ian’s and Ian took the chance to push him tongue against Mickey’s, sucking his gently and pulling back again. Mickey followed him, movements clumsy, eyes closed, mouth open as he breathed in small panting breaths. ‘Want you,’ Ian said, mouth dragging across Mickey’s jaw. ‘Wanted you since you walked into my fucking office.’ He pulled further back and Mickey opened his eyes. They stared at each other, breathing hard. Ian dropped his head forward, knocking their foreheads together. ‘I want you,’ he said clearly and loud enough that Mickey could hear him over their heavy breathing. 

Mickey pulled back and blinked slowly at him. Ian swallowed and Mickey’s eyes tracked the movement before coming back to his face. 

‘I want you,’ Ian said again.

‘So fuckin’ take me,’ Mickey said and his mouth was smirking in a way that meant Ian had to kiss him, had to drag him forward by the hips again, had to push his fingers into his hair and hold him there while he pushed his tongue into Mickey’s mouth and tasted every inch of him, running it along his teeth, teasing the roof of his mouth, licking into him. 

‘Bedroom,’ Mickey said and Ian nodded, not releasing his hold as Mickey started walking backwards. They got a few feet before Ian was pushing him up against a wall and, running his hands along Mickey’s arm, raised his arms to pin the above his head.

‘You are so fuckin’ hot,’ Ian muttered as he leaned in to skim over his mouth again. Mickey arched forward, pushing himself towards Ian. Ian was aching in his jeans. He let go of Mickey’s wrists, smirking when Mickey left his arms there, and dragged his hands over Mickey’s tight forearms, his firm biceps. He nipped at Mickey’s lips and groaned. ‘So hot,’ he muttered, letting his hands run down the length of Mickey’s body before brush against the front of his jeans. Mickey made a noise that made Ian feel infinite, his back bowing off the wall. Ian latched onto his neck and sucked lightly, palming Mickey through his jeans. He was hard and suddenly Ian couldn’t wait. He reached to unbutton Mickey’s jeans but stopped when Mickey’s hands came down on top of his. He stilled immediately, looking at Mickey, waiting. 

‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘Too fast?’

Mickey shook his head, breathing hard. He leaned forward and caught Ian’s lower lip, kissing him slowly. 

‘Nah, just don’t want to fuckin’ do it in the fuckin’ hallway,’ he said and his eyes cut away from Ian’s, a clear sign that he was worried about what Ian would think. Ian took his hand away from Mickey’s jean buttons and caught his chin, turning him until Ian could kiss him slowly and softly. 

‘I have been dreaming about getting you on a real bed for weeks,’ he said and Mickey flushed as Ian leaned in to kiss him again. ‘Bedroom?’

Mickey nodded and Ian stepped back slightly. Mickey’s hair was sticking up and there was a fresh red mark on his jaw from Ian’s mouth. Ian was hard and aching but when Mickey grabbed his hand to lead him down the hallway he felt the ache in his chest that he knew had as much to do with love as it did want. 

 

**************************

Ian’s hand was sweaty, his palm hot. Mickey led him to his room, trying to get his heart to slow down. He could feel Ian’s breath on the back of his neck, could feel the heat of him behind him. He’d tried to make his room presentable, shoving things into piles or under the bed. Mandy had even dug up cleaner sheets. He glanced at Ian to try and gauge his reaction but Ian wasn’t looking at anything but him. Mickey swallowed and reached round him to push the door closed. He heard it click and then Ian was pulling him back in, his mouth on Mickey’s jaw, on his neck, on his mouth. 

Mickey let his hands wander; into Ian’s hair, over his jaw, onto his chin to drag him mouth open wide enough to let Mickey slide his tongue alongside Ian’s. That made Ian groan, low and breathy, and push himself closer to Mickey, who felt a burst of pride at being able to get that kind of noise from Ian. He let his hands drop to the bottom of Ian’s t-shirt. He felt hard underneath it, muscled and taut, and Mickey dragged his finger tips across warm skin, just above Ian’s waistband. Ian jerked back, tugged the shirt over his head and then pushed forward again before Mickey could properly look at him. Mickey’s hand were everywhere. Ian was solid and warm and soft and Mickey dragged his mouth away from Ian’s, leaving Ian open mouthed and wide eyed. He gasped as Mickey sat heavily on the edge of the bed and leaned forward. The noise Ian made as Mickey kissed his stomach was almost enough to finish Mickey then and there and then his hand was on the back of Mickey’s head, holding him there as Mickey let his mouth trace Ian’s stomach, around his belly button, the line of orange hair the dipped into his jeans. Ian was panting above him and when Mickey glanced up he groaned and hauled Mickey to his feet, pushing the shirt off his shoulders, tugging at Mickey’s tank top. 

‘Off,’ Ian muttered. Mickey hesitated for a second, the briefest moment to think about the scars that littered his body. ‘Off,’ Ian said again and he sounded wrecked, desperate, so Mickey lifted his arms and Ian dragged the tank off and then his eyes were everywhere. ‘Fuck, Mickey,’ he said and Mickey resisted the urge to draw back and then Ian dropped to his knees. He felt his breath hiccup in his throat as Ian dragged his fingers across every inch of him. ‘Fuck,’ he said again, dropping his mouth in hot kisses across Mickey’s skin. ‘Not going to last very long when you fuckin’ look like this,’ he said, dragging his mouth along Mickey’s waist band and groaning. ‘So hot. Smell so good.’ 

He looked up at Mickey, eyes half lidded, and Mickey reached down to push his fingers into his hair. Ian groaned and kissed his stomach. 

‘Don’t know…’ he panted and Ian looked up at him again. ‘Don’t know how fuckin’ long I’m going to last either,’ he admitted and Ian grinned before leaning in to press his face into the hard bulge of Mickey’s crotch. Mickey moaned and Ian mouthed at him. ‘Fuck, Ian,’ he said and Ian’s head snapped up. 

‘Say my name again,’ he said, mouth opened, eyes wide. Mickey pushed his fingers through Ian’s hair and his eyes fluttered shut. Mickey stared at him, at the perfect flush of skin that highlighted the brush of freckles, at his pink mouth and at his entire, beautiful face. 

‘Ian,’ he breathed out and Ian was on his feet suddenly, mouth over Mickey’s, murmuring his name and pushing his fingers into Mickey’s hair. He held him steady, one hand on either side of Mickey’s face and kissed him deeply before pulling back. 

‘We can go as fast or as slow as we want,’ he said and his smile was so gentle that Mickey couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss it. Ian pulled back a moment later and held him still, looking him in the eye. ‘We’ve got so much time, Mickey,’ he said. ‘So much time.’ And then his hands were guiding Mickey back onto the bed and Ian was straddling him, hovering over him, face flushed and full of delighted joy. Mickey reached up to trace his mouth and Ian pressed a kiss to his palm before leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth. ‘All the fuckin’ time in the world,’ he muttered against Mickey’s lips and Mickey smiled into it, dragging him down until all he could feel was Ian pushed against him, holding him down, pressing him into the mattress and murmuring his name into the hot skin of his neck. 

‘So much time,’ he said quietly and Ian kissed the words out of his mouth. 

 

*******************************

 

It was dark when Mandy and Iggy came back. Mickey’s eyes fluttered open and he listened to them walk around the living room, clattering in the kitchen. 

Ian was warm against his back, his heavy arm thrown across Mickey’s stomach. Their fingers were intertwined and Mickey squeezed slightly, matching his breath with Ian’s. 

There was a quiet knock on his door. 

‘Mick?’ Iggy said, not quite quietly. 

‘Iggy, leave them alone,’ Mandy said from the living room. 

Mickey heard Iggy moving away, muttering something. 

‘If they’re hungry they’ll get up,’ Mandy said. ‘Let them sleep.’

Mickey heard the tv click on and Iggy say something else that made Mandy laugh. 

‘Pretty sure reheated pizza’s better than any of the shit in prison,’ she said. ‘They’ll get up when they get up. He can do what he likes. He’s home.’

Ian shifted slightly behind Mickey and Mickey shuffled to press them closer together. His eyes were heavy and his body was aching in the best way. He listened to the tv droning in the next room, to his brother and sister arguing, to the breathing of the man holding him tightly against him, and he let his eyes close, let go off any tension as he let his body melt into sleep, because Mandy was right. 

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we need some good news, right? And if anyone deserves it it's Mickey. Group hug for freedom! 
> 
> They'll be one more chapter to round this off because I'll be damned if these boys don't get that burger Ian promised and then maybe, if people are into the idea, a few one shots of further down the line in this universe. 
> 
> A note on the ankle monitors, people really do get charged money for having them on. Anywhere from $5 to $35 a day according to the research I did. Reading about it made me pretty mad and I wanted to put it in because it seems an unusually cruel way of punishing those who often won't have the means to pay it. 
> 
> Anyway, off my soap box and I hope everyone is staying safe and well, doing okay and keeping busy and as sane as this madness allows us to be. Thanks for reading. It means the whole world!


End file.
